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WORKS OF BRET HARTE. 


JHiijcr^Sibc 


COLLECTED AND REVISED BY THE AUTHOR. 






THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP 

AND OTHER STORIES 


INCLUDING EARLIER PAPERS, SPANISH AND 
AMERICAN LEGENDS, TALES OF THE 
ARGONAUTS, ETC. 


BY 

BRET HARTE 

M 



BOSTON 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

NEW YORK : 1 1 EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET 

CI)e Eitiereiitie press, Cambrtliffe 
1S99 


V. ' 




j 


TWO COPIES received, 

Library of Ccngreet^ 
Office 0 f the 



DEC 6 - 1850 


Register of Copyrights 


50996 


Copyright, 1871 and 1872, 


By fields, OSGOOD & CO and JAMES R OSGOOD & CO. 


Copyright, 1882, 

By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

Copyright,, 1899, 

By BRET HARTE. 

zf// rights reserved. 


SECOND COPYf 




CONTENTS. 

PROSE— EARUER_PAPERS. 

FAGl 

— > MLISS 

HIGH-WATER MARK 35 

A LONELY RIDE ••••••••••46 

THE MAN OF NO ACCOUNT ••••••••54 

NOTES BY FLOOD AND FIELD ••••••• 60 

WAITING FOR THE^.SHIP , ••• ••••87 

THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP AND OTHER 

). 

SKETCHES. 

THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP •••••••93 

' THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT^ ••••••• I07 

HIGGLES -•>... • I 2 I 

^Tennessee’s partner ..••••••. 135 

THE IDYL OF RED GULCH'. •••••••• I47 

BROWN OF CALAVERAS .•••••••• 159 


VI 


Conte7its 


BOHEMIAN PAPERS, 


MELONS • • . • 

• 

• 

1 

• 

• 

• 

PAGB 

175 

A VENERABLE IMPOSTOR . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

183 

A boys’ dog 







187 

surprising adventures of master CHARLES SUMMERTON 

• 

192 

THE MISSION DOLORES , 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

197 

BOONDER .... 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 


201 

'' FROM A BALCONY , • 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

20$ 

-JOHN CHINAMAN . , 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

2 II 

— ON A VULGAR LITTLE BOY , 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

21$ 

FROM A BACK WINDOW 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

219 

SIDEWALKINGS . 

• 

• 


• 

• 

• 

223 

CHARITABLE REMINISCENCES 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

229 

“seeing the steamer off ” 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

235 

NEIGHBOURHOODS I HAVE MOVED 

FROM 

• 

• 

• 

• 

240 

MY SUBURBAN RESIDENCE . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

251 

the ruins of SAN FRANCISCO 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

257 


SPANISH AND AMERICAN LEGENDS 


THE LEGEND OF MONTE DEL DIABLO 263 

THE RIGHT EYE OF THE COMMANDER • # • • . 279 

THE LEGEND OF DEVIL’S POINT 289 

THE ADVENTURE OF PADRE VICENTIO • t • • • 298 

THE DEVIL AND THE BROKER . 306 

THE OGRESS OF SILVER LAND . . . . « « * 3 ** 

THE CHRISTMAS GIFT THAT CAME TO RUPERT . • . . 318 


Contents. vii 

TALES OF THE ARGONAUTS. 

rxGB 

THE ILIAD OF SANDY BAR 329 

MR. Thompson’s prodigal • - 343 

THE ROMANCE OF MADRONO HOLLOW • . ♦ • . 353 

THE POET OF SIERRA FLAT 367 

THE PRINCESS BOB AND HER FRIENDS ..... 38O 




PROSE 


EARLIER PAPERS. 


VOK 15. 






CHAPTER I 

Just where the Sierra Nevada begins to subside in gentlei 
undulations, and the rivers grow less rapid and yellow, on 
the side of a great red mountain, stands “ Smith’s Pocket.” 
Seen from the red road at sunset, in the red light and the 
red dust, its white houses look like the outcroppings of 
quartz on the mountain-side. The red stage, topped with 
red-shirted passengers, is lost to view half-a-dozen times in 
the tortuous descent, turning up unexpectedly in out-of- 
the-way places, and vanishing altogether within a hundred 
yards of the town. It is probably owing to this sudden 
twist in the road that the advent of a stranger at Smith’s 
Pocket is usually attended with a peculiar circumstance. 
Dismounting from the vehicle at the stage-office, the too- 
confident traveller is apt to walk straight out of town under 
the impression that it lies in quite another direction. It is 
related that one of the tunnel-men, two miles from town, 
met one of these self-reliant passengers with a carpet- 
bag, umbrella. Harper’s Magazine, and other evidences of 
“civilisation and refinement,” plodding along over the 
road he had just ridden, vainly endeavouring to find the 
settlement of Smith’s Pocket. 

An observant traveller might have found some compen- 
sation for his disappointment in the weird aspect of that 
vicinity. There were huge fissures on the hill-side, and 


4 


Mliss, 


displacements of the red soil, resembling more the chaos 
of some primary elemental upheaval than the work of man ; 
while, half-way down, a long flume straddled its narrow 
body and disproportionate legs over the chasm, like an 
enormous fossil of some forgotten antediluvian. At every 
step smaller ditches crossed the road, hiding in their sallow 
depths unlovely streams that crept away to a clandestine 
union with the great yellow torrent below, and here and 
there were the ruins of some cabin with the chimney alone 
left intact, and the hearthstone open to the skies. 

The settlement of Smith’s Pocket owed its origin to the 
finding of a “pocket” on its site by a veritable Smith. 
Five thousand dollars were taken out of it in one half-hour 
by Smith. Three thousand dollars were expended by Smith 
and others in erecting a flume and in tunnelling. And 
then Smith’s Pocket was found to be only a pocket, and 
subject, like other pockets, to depletion. Although Smith 
pierced the bowels of the great red mountain, that five 
thousand dollars was the first and last return of his labour. 
The mountain grew reticent of its golden secrets, and the 
flume steadily ebbed away the remainder of Smith’s fortune. 
Then Smith went into quartz-mining; then into quartz- 
milling; then into hydraulics and ditching, and then by 
easy degrees into saloon-keeping. Presently it was whispered 
that Smith was drinking a great deal; then it was known 
that Smith was a habitual drunkard, and then people began 
to think, as they are apt to, that he had never been any- 
thing else. But the settlement of Smith’s Pocket, like that 
of most discoveries, was happily not dependent on the 
fortune of its pioneer, and other parties projected tunnels 
and found pockets. So Smith’s Pocket became a settle- 
ment, with its two fancy stores, its two hotels, its one express- 
office, and its two first families. Occasionally its one long 
straggling street was overawed by the assumption of the 


Mliss, 


5 

latest San Francisco fashions, imported per express, ex- 
clusively to the first families ; making outraged Nature, in 
the ragged outline of her furrowed surface, look still more 
homely, and putting personal insult on that greater portion 
of the population to whom the Sabbath, with a change of 
lirten, brought merely the necessity of cleanliness, without 
the luxury of adornment. Then there was a Methodist 
Church, and hard by a Monte-Bank, and a little beyond, 
on the mountain- side, a graveyard ; and then a little school- 
house. 

“ The Master,” as he was known to his little flock, sat 
alone one night in the schoolhouse, with some open copy- 
books before him, carefully making those bold and full 
characters which are supposed to combine the extremes of 
chirographical and moral excellence, and had got as far as 
“ Riches are deceitful,” and was elaborating the noun with 
an insincerity of flourish that was quite in the spirit of his 
text, when he heard a gentle tapping. The woodpeckers 
had been busy about the roof during the day, and the noise 
did not disturb his work. But the opening of the door, 
and the tapping continuing from the inside, caused him to 
look up. He was slightly startled by the figure of a young 
girl, dirty and shabbily clad. Still, her great black eyes, 
her coarse, uncombed, lustreless black hair falling over her 
sunburned face, her red arms and feet streaked with the 
red soil, were all familiar to him. It was Melissa Smith, — 
Smith’s motherless child. 

“ What can she want here ? ” thought the master. Every- 
body knew “ Mliss,” as she was called, throughout the 
length and height of Red Mountain. Everybody knew her 
as an incorrigible girl. Her fierce, ungovernable disposition, 
her mad freaks, and lawless character, were in their way as 
proverbial as the story of her father’s weaknesses, and ai 
philosophically accepted by the townsfolk. She wrangled 


6 


Mliss, 


with and fought the schoolboys with keener invective and 
quite as powerful arm. She followed the trails with a 
woodman’s craft, and the master had met her before, miles 
away, shoeless, stockingless, and bareheaded on the moun- 
tain road. The miners’ camps along the stream supplied 
her with subsistence during these voluntary pilgrimages 
in freely-offered alms. Not but that a larger protection 
had been previously extended to Mliss. The Rev. Joshua 
McSnagley, “ stated preacher, had placed her in the hotel 
as servant, by way of preliminary refinement, and had 
introduced her to his scholars at Sunday-school. But she 
threw plates occasionally at the landlord, and quickly re- 
torted to the cheap witticisms of the guests, and created in 
the Sabbath-school a sensation that was so inimical to the 
orthodox dulness and placidity of that institution, that, with 
a decent regard for the starched frocks and unblemished 
morals of the two pink-and-white-faced children of the first 
families, the reverend gentleman had her ignominiously 
expelled. Such were the antecedents and such the char- 
acter of Mliss as she stood before the master. It was 
shown in the ragged dress, the unkempt hair, and bleeding 
feet, and asked his pity. It flashed from her black, fearless 
eyes, and commanded his respect. 

“ I come here to-night,” she said rapidly and boldly, 
keeping her hard glance on his, “ because I knew you was 
alone. I wouldn’t come here when them gals was here. I 
hate ’em and they hates me. That’s why. You keep 
school, don’t you ? I want to be teached ! ” 

If to the shabbiness of her apparel and uncomeliness of 
her tangled hair and dirty face she had added the humility 
of tears, the master would have extended to her the usual 
moiety of pity, and nothing more. But, with the natural 
though illogical instincts of his species, her boldness 
awakened in him something of that respect wTiich all original 


Mliss. 


7 


natures pay unconsciously to one another in any grade. And 
he gazed at her the more fixedly as she went on still rapidly, 
her hand on that door-latch, and her eyes on his : — 

** My name’s Mliss, — Mliss Smith ! You can bet youi 
life on that My father’s Old Smith, — Old Bummer Smith, 
— that’s what’s the matter with him. Mliss Smith, — and 
I’m coming to school ! ” 

“ Well ? ” said the master. 

Accustomed to be thwarted and opposed, often wantonly 
and cruelly, for no other purpose than to excite the violent 
impulses of her nature, the master’s phlegm evidently took 
her by surprise. She stopped ; she began to twist a lock of 
her hair between her fingers ; and the rigid line of upper 
lip, drawn over the wicked little teeth, relaxed and quivered 
slightly. Then her eyes dropped, and something like a 
blush struggled up to her cheek, and tried to assert itself 
through the splashes of redder soil, and the sunburn of 
years. Suddenly she threw herself forward, calling on God 
to strike her dead, and fell quite weak and helpless, with 
her face on the master’s desk, crying and sobbing as if her 
heart would break. 

The master lifted her gently and waited for the paroxysm 
to pass. When, with face still averted, she was repeating 
between her sobs the mea culpa of childish penitence, — that 
“she’d be good, she didn’t mean to,” &c., it came to him 
to ask her why she had left Sabbath-schooL 

Why had she left the Sabbath-school ? — why ? Oh, yes ! 
What did he (McSnagley) want to tell her she was wicked 
for? What did he tell her that God hated her for? If 
God hated her, what did she want to go to Sabbath-school 
for ? She didn’t want to be “ beholden ” to anybody who 
hated her. 

Had she told McSnagley this ? 

Yes, she had. 


8 


Mliss. 


The master laughed. It was a hearty laugh, and echoed 
BO oddly in the little schoolhouse, and seemed so incon- 
sistent and discordant with the sighing of the pines without, 
that he shortly corrected himself with a sigh. The sigh was 
quite as sincere in its way, however, and after a moment of 
serious silence he asked about her father. 

Her father? What father? Whose father? What had 
he ever done for her ? Why did the girls hate her ? Come 
now ! what made the folks say, “ Old Bummer Smith’s 
Mliss ! ” when she passed ? Yes ; oh, yes ! She wished he 
was dead, — she was dead, — everybody was dead j and her 
sobs broke forth anew. 

The master then, leaning over her, told her as well as he 
could what you or I might have said after hearing such 
unnatural theories from childish lips ; only bearing in mind 
perhaps better than you or I the unnatural facts of her ragged 
dress, her bleeding feet, and the omnipresent shadow of her 
drunken father. Then, raising her to her feet, he wrapped 
his shawl around her, and bidding her come early in the 
morning, he walked with her down the road. There he 
bade her “good night.” The moon shone brightly on the 
narrow path before them. He stood and watched the bent 
little figure as it staggered down the road, and waited until 
it had passed the little graveyard and reached the curve of 
the hill, where it turned and stood for a moment, a mere 
atom of suffering outlined against the far-off patient stars. 
Then he went back to his work. But the lines of the copy- 
book thereafter faded into long parallels of never-ending 
road, over which childish figures seemed to pass sobbing 
and crying into the night. Then, , the little schoolhouse 
seeming lonelier than before, he shut the door and went 
home. A:: 

The next morning Mliss came to school. Her face had 
been washed, and her coarse black hair bore evidence of 


MIlss. 


9 


recent struggles with the comb, in which both had evidently 
sufifered. The old defiant look shone occasionally in her 
eyes, but her manner was tamer and more subdued. Then 
began a series of little trials and self-sacrifices, in which 
master and pupil bore an equal part, and which increased 
the confidence and sympathy between them. Although 
obedient under the master’s eye, at times during recess, if 
thwarted or stung by a fancied slight, Mliss would rage in 
ungovernable fury, and many a palpitating young savage, 
finding himself matched with his own weapons of torment, 
would seek the master with torn jacket and scratched face, 
and complaints of the dreadful Mliss. There was a serious 
division among the townspeople on the subject ; some 
threatening to withdraw their children from such evil com- 
panionship, and others as warmly upholding the course of 
the master in his work of reclamation. Meanwhile, with 
a steady persistence that seemed quite astonishing to him 
on looking back afterward, the master drew Mliss gradually 
out of the shadow of her past life, as though it were but her 
natural progress down the narrow path on which he had 
set her feet the moonlit night of their first meeting. 
Remembering the experience of the evangelical McSnagley^ 
he carefully avoided that Rock of Ages on which that 
unskilful pilot had shipwrecked her young faith. But if, 
in the course of her reading, she chanced to stumble upon 
those few words which have lifted such as she above the 
level of the older, the wiser, and the more prudent, — if she 
learned something of a faith that is symbolised by suffering, 
and the old light softened in her eyes, it did not take the 
shape of a lesson. A few of the plainer people had made 
up a little sum by which the ragged Mliss was enabled to 
assume the garments of respect and civilisation ; and often 
a rough shake of the hand and words of homely com- 
mendation from a red-shirted and burly figure sent a glow 


lO 


Mliss. 


to the cheek of the young master, and set him to thinking 
if it was altogether deserved. 

Three months had passed from the time of their first 
meeting, and the master was sitting late one evening over 
the moral and sententious copies, when there came a tap at 
the door, and again Mliss stood before him. She was neatly 
clad and clean-faced, and there was nothing perhaps but the 
long black hair and bright black eyes to remind him of his 
former apparition. “ Are you busy ? ” she asked. ** Can 
you come with me ? ” — and on his signifying his readiness, 
in her own wilful way she said, ‘‘ Come, then, quick ! 

They passed out of the door together and into the dark 
road. As they entered the town the master asked her whither 
she was going. She replied, “To see my father.” 

It was the first time he had heard her call him by that 
filial title, or indeed anything more than “ Old Smith ” or 
the “Old man.” It was the first time in three months that 
she had spoken of him at all, and the master knew she had 
kept, resolutely aloof from him since her great change. 
Satisfied from her manner that it was fruitless to question 
her purpose, he passively followed. In out-of-the-way places, 
low groggeries, restaurants, and saloons, in gambling-hells 
and dance-houses, the master, preceded by Mliss, came and 
went. In the reeking smoke and blasphemous outcries of ^ 
low dens, the child, holding the master’s hand, stood and 
anxiously gazed, seemingly unconscious of all in the one 
absorbing nature of her pursuit. Some of the revellers, 
recognising Mliss, called to the child to sing and dance for 
them, and would have forced liquor upon her but for the 
interference of the master. Others, recognising him, mutely 
made way for them to pass. So an hour slipped by. Then 
the child whispered in his ear that there was a cabin on the 
other side of the creek crossed by the long flume where she 
thought he still might be. Thither they crossed, — a toilsome 





Mliss, 


1 1 

half hour’s walk, — but in vain. They were returning by the 
ditch at the abutment of the flume, gazing at the lights of 
the town on the opposite bank, when suddenly, sharply, a 
quick report rang out on the clear night air. The echoes 
caught it, and carried it round and round Red Mountain, 
and set the dogs to barking all along the streams. Lights 
seemed to dance and move quickly on the outskirts of the 
town for a few moments, the stream rippled quite audibly 
beside them, a few stones loosened themselves from the hill- 
side and splashed into the stream, a heavy wind seemed to 
surge the branches of the funereal pines, and then the silence 
seemed to fall thicker, heavier, and deadlier. The master 
turned towards Mliss with an unconscious gesture of protec- 
tion, but the child had gone. Oppressed by a strange fear, he 
ran quickly down the trail to the river’s bed, and jump- 
ing from boulder to boulder, reached the base of Red Moun- 
tain and the outskirts of the village. Midway of the crossing 
he looked up and held his breath in awe. For high above 
him on the narrow flume he saw the fluttering little figure of 
his late companion crossing swiftly in the darkness. 

He climbed the bank, and, guided by a few lights moving 
about a central point on the mountain, soon found himself 
breathless among a crowd of awestricken and sorrowful 
men. 

Out from among them the child appeared, and, taking the 
master’s hand, led him silently before what seemed a ragged 
hole in the mountain. Her face was quite white, but her 
excited manner gone, and he^ look that of one to whom some 
long-expected event had at last happened, — an expression 
that to the master in his bewilderment seemed almost like 
relief. The walls of the cavern were partly propped by de- 
caying timbers. The child pointed to what appeared to be 
gome ragged, cast-off clothes left in the hole by the late 
occupant. The master approached nearer with his flaming 


13 


Mliss, 


dip, and bent over them. It was Smith, already cold, with 
a pistol in his hand and a bullet in his heart, lying beside 
his empty pocket 


CHAPTER II. 

The opinion which McSnagley expressed in reference- to 
a ** change of heart ” supposed to be experienced by Mliss 
was more forcibly described in the gulches and tunnels. It 
was thought there that Mliss had “ struck a good lead.’' So 
when there was a new grave added to the little enclosure, 
and at the expense of the master a little board and inscrip- 
tion put above it, the Red Mowitain Banner came out quite 
handsomely, and did the fair thing to the memory of one of 
“ our oldest pioneers,” alluding gracefully to that “ bane of 
noble intellects,” and otherwise genteelly shelving our dear 
brother with the past “ He leaves an only child to mourn 
his loss,” says the Banner, “who is now an exemplary 
scholar, thanks to the efforts of the Rev. Mr. McSnagley.” 
The Rev. McSnagley, in fact, made a strong point of Mliss’s 
conversion, and, indirectly attributing to the unfortunate 
child the suicide of her father, made affecting allusions in 
Sunday-school to the beneficial effects of the “ silent tomb,” 
and in this cheerful contemplation drove most of the chil- 
dren into speechless horror, and caused the pink-and- white 
scions of the first families to howl dismally and refuse to be 
comforted. 

The long dry summer came. As each fierce day burned 
itself out in little whiffs of pearl-grey smoke on the moun* 
lain summits, and the upspringing breeze scattered its red 
embers over the landscape, the green wave which in early 


Mliss. 


13 


Bpring upheaved above Smithes grave grew sere and dry 
and hard. In those days the master, strolling in the little 
churchyard Of a Sabbath afternoon, was sometimes surprised 
to find a few wild flowers plucked from the damp pine- 
forests scattered there, and oftener rude wreaths hung upon 
the little pine cross. Most of these wreaths were formed of 
a sweet-scented grass, which the children loved to keep 
in their desks, intertwined with the plumes of the buckeye, 
the syringa, and the wood-anemone ; and here and there the 
master noticed the dark blue cowl of the monk’s-hood, or 
deadly aconite. There was something in the odd associa- 
tion of this noxious plant with these memorials which occa- 
sioned a painful sensation to the master deeper than his 
esthetic sense. One day, during a long walk, in crossing 
a wooded ridge he came upon Mliss in the heart of the 
forest, perched upon a prostrate pine, on a fantastic throne 
formed by the hanging plumes of lifeless branches, her lap 
full of grasses and pine-burrs, and crooning to herself one 
of the negro melodies of her younger life. Recognising 
him at a distance, she made room for him on her elevated 
throne, and with a grave assumption of hospitality and 
patronage that would have been ridiculous had it not been 
so terribly earnest, she fed him with pine-nuts and crab- 
apples. The master took that opportunity to point out to 
her the noxious and deadly qualities of the monk’s-hood, 
whose dark blossoms he saw in her lap, and extorted from 
her a promise not to meddle with it as long as she remained 
his pupil. This done, — as the master had tested her 
integrity before, — he rested satisfied, and the strange feeling 
which had overcome him on seeing them died away. 

Of the homes that were offered Mliss when her conversion 
became known, the master preferred that of Mrs. Morpher, 
a womanly and kind-hearted specimen of South-Western 
efflorescence, known in her maidenhood as the “ Per-rairia 


Af/iss, 


Rose.” Being one of those who contend resolutely against 
their own natures, Mrs. Morpher, by a long series of self- 
sacrifices and struggles, had at last subjugated her naturally 
careless disposition to principles of “ order,” which she 
considered, in common with Mr. Pope, as “ Heaven’s first 
law.” But she could not entirely govern the orbits of her 
satellites, however regular her own movements, and even 
her own “Jeemes” sometimes collided with her. Again 
her old nature asserted itself in her children. Lycurgus 
dipped into the cupboard “ between meals,” and Aristides 
came home from school without shoes, leaving those 
important articles on the threshold, for the delight of a 
barefooted walk down the ditches. Octavia and Cassandra 
were “keerless” of their clothes. So with but one ex- 
ception, however much the “Prairie Rose” might have 
trimmed and pruned and trained her own matured luxu- 
riance, the little shoots came up defiantly wild and strag- 
gling. That one exception was Clytemnestra Morpher, aged 
fifteen. She was the realisation of her mother’s immaculate 
conception, — neat, orderly, and dull 

It was an amiable weakness of Mrs. Morpher to ima- 
gine that “ Clytie ” was a consolation and model for Mliss. 
Following this fallacy, Mrs. Morpher threw Clytie at the 
head of Mliss when she was “ bad,” and set her up before 
the child for adoration in her penitential moments. It was 
not, therefore, surprising to the master to hear that Clytie 
was coming to school, obviously as a favour to the master 
and as an example for Mliss and others. For “ Clytie ” was 
quite a young lady. Inheriting her mother’s physical 
peculiarities, and in obedience to the climatic laws of the 
Red Mountain region, she was an early bloomer. The 
youth of Smith’s Pocket, to whom this kind of flower was 
rare, sighed for her in April and languished in May 


Mliss. 


15 

Enamoured swains haunted the schoolhouse at the hour of 
dismissal. A few were jealous of the master. 

Perhaps it was this latter circumstance that opened the 
master^s eyes to another. He could not help noticing that 
Clytie was romantic; that in school she required a great 
deal of attention ; that her pens were uniformly bad and 
wanted fixing ; that she usually accompanied the request 
with a certain expectation in her eye that was somewhat 
disproportionate to the quality of service she verbally re- 
quired ; that she sometimes allowed the curves of a round, 
plump white arm to rest on his when he was writing her 
copies ; that she always blushed and flung back her blonde 
curls when she did so. I don’t remember whether I have 
stated that the master was a young man, — it’s of little 
consequence, however ; he had been severely educated in 
the school in which Clytie was taking her first lesson, and, 
on the whole, withstood the flexible curves and factitious 
glance like the fine young Spartan that he was. Perhaps an 
insufficient quality of food may have tended to this asceti- 
cism. He generally avoided Clytie ; but one evening, when 
she returned to the schoolhouse after something she had 
forgotten, and did not find it until the master walked home 
with her, I hear that he endeavoured to make himself par- 
ticularly agreeable, — partly from the fact, I imagine, that 
his conduct was adding gall and bitterness to the already 
overcharged hearts of Clytemnestra’s admirers. 

The morning after this affecting episode Mliss did not 
come to school. Noon came, but not Mliss. Questioning 
Clytie on the subject, it appeared that they had left the 
school together, but the wilful Mliss had taken another road. 
The afternoon brought her not. In the evening he called 
on Mrs. Morpher, whose motherly heart was really alarmed. 
Mr. Morpher had spent all day in search of her, without 
fliscvvering a trace that might lead to her discovery 


I6 


Mliss, 


Aristides was summoned as a probable accomplice, but 
that equitable infant succeeded in impressing the household 
with his innocence. Mrs. Morpher entertained a vivid 
impression that the child would yet be found drowned in a 
ditch, or, what was almost as terrible, muddied and soiled 
beyond the redemption of soap and water. Sick at heart, 
the master returned to the schoolhouse. As he lit his 
lamp and seated himself at his desk, he found a note lying 
before him addressed to himself in Mliss’s handwriting. 
It, seemed to be written on a leaf torn from some old 
memorandum-book, and, to prevent sacrilegious trifling, had 
been sealed with six broken wafers. Opening it almost 
tenderly, the master read as follows : — 

“ Respected Sir, — When you read this, I am run away. 
Never to come back. Never ^ Never, NEVER. You can 
give my beeds to Mary Jennings, and my Amerika’s Pride 
[a highly coloured lithograph from a tobacco box] to Sally 
Flanders. But don’t you give anything to Clytie Morpher. 
Don’t you dare to. Do you know what my opinion is of 
her : it is this, she is perfekly disgustin. That is all and no 
more at present from Yours respectfully, 

“ Melissa Smith.” 

The master sat pondering on this strange epistle till the 
moon lifted its bright face above the distant hills and 
illuminated the trail that led to the schoolhouse, beaten 
quite hard with the coming and going of little feet. Then, 
more satisfied in mind, he tore the missive into fragments 
and scattered them along the road. 

At sunrise the next morning he was picking his way 
through the palm-like fern and thick underbrush of the pine 
forest, starting the hare from its form, and awakening a 
querulous protest from a few dissipated crows, who had 


Mliss. 


17 

evidently been making a night of it, and so came to the 
wooded ridge where he had once found Mliss. There he 
found the prostrate pine and tasselled branches, but the 
throne was vacant. As he drew nearer, what might have 
been some frightened animal started through the crackling 
limbs. It ran up the tossed arms of the fallen monarch 
and sheltered itself in some friendly foliage. The master, 
reaching the old seat, found the nest still warm ; looking up 
in the intertwining branches, he met the black eyes of the 
errant Mliss. They gazed at each other without speaking. 
She was first to break the silence. 

“ What do you want ? ” she asked curtly. 

The master had decided on a course of action. “ I want 
some crab-apples,” he said humbly. 

“ Shan’t have ’em ! go away ! Why don’t you get ’em 
of Clytemnerestera ? ” (It seemed to be a relief to Mliss to 
express her contempt in additional syllables to that classical 
young woman’s already long-drawn title.) “ Oh, you wicked 
thing ! ” 

“ I am hungry, Lissy. I have eaten nothing since dinner 
yesterday. I am famished ! ” and the young man in a state 
of remarkable exhaustion leaned against the tree. 

Melissa’s heart was touched. In the bitter days of her 
gipsy life she had known the sensation he so artfully 
simulated. Overcome by his heartbroken tone, but not 
entirely divested of suspicion, she said — 

“ Dig under the tree near the roots, and you’ll find lots ; 
but mind you don’t tell ! ” (for Mliss had her hoards as well 
as the rats and squirrels). 

But the master, of course, was unable to find them, the 
effects of hunger probably blinding his senses. Mliss grew 
uneasy. At length she peered at him through the leaves in 
an elfish way, and questioned— - 

VOL. II. 


V 


1 8 MUss. 

“ If I come dovm and give you some, you’ll promise you 
uron’t touch me ? 

The master promised. 

Hope you’ll die if you do ? ” 

The master accepted instant dissolution as a forfeit. 
Mliss slid down the tree. For a few moments nothing 
transpired but the munching of the pine-nuts. “ Do you 
feel better ? ” she asked with some solicitude. The master 
confessed to a recuperated feeling, and then, gravely thank- 
ing her, proceeded to retrace his steps. As he expected, he 
had not gone far before she called him. He turned. She 
was standing there quite white, with tears in her widely 
opened orbs. The master felt that the right moment had 
come. Going up to her, he took both her hands, and, 
looking in her tearful eyes, said, gravely, “Lissy, do you 
remember the first evening you came to see me ? ” 

Lissy remembered. 

“ You asked me if you might come to school, for you 

wanted to learn something and be better, and I said ” 

“Come,” responded the child, promptly. 

“ What would you say if the master now came to you and 
said that he was lonely without his little scholar, and that 
he wanted her to come and teach him to be better ? ” 

The child hung her head for a few moments in silence. 
The master waited patiently. Tempted by the quiet, a 
hare ran close to the couple, and raising her bright eyes 
and velvet forepaws, sat and gazed at them. A squirrel 
ran half-way down the furrowed bark of the fallen tree, and 
there stopped. 

“ We are waiting, Lissy,” said the master in a whisper, 
and the child smiled. Stirred by a passing breeze, the 
tree-tops rocked, and a long pencil of light stole through 
their interlaced boughs full on the doubting face and 
inesolute little figure. Suddenly she took the masteFi 


Mliss, 


19 


hand in her quick way. What she said was scarcely 
audible, but the master, putting the black hair back from 
her forehead, kissed her ; and so, hand in hand, they passed 
out of the damp aisles and forest odours into the open 
sunlit road. 


CHAPTER III. 

Somewhat less spiteful in her intercourse with other 
scholars, Mliss still retained an offensive attitude in regard 
to Clytemnestra. Perhaps the jealous element was not 
entirely lulled in her passionate little breast. Perhaps it 
was only that the round curves and plump outline offered 
more extended pinching surface. But while such ebullitions 
were under the master’s control, her enmity occasionally 
took a new and irrepressible form. 

The master in his first estimate of the child’s character 
could not conceive that she had ever possessed a dolL 
But the master, like many other professed readers of 
character, was safer in d, posteriori than ci priori reasoning. 
Mliss had a doll, but then it was emphatically Mliss’s doll, 
— a smaller copy of herself. Its unhappy existence had been 
a secret discovered accidentally by Mrs. Morpher. It had 
been the old-time companion of Mliss’s wanderings, and 
bore evident marks of suffering. Its original complexion 
was long since washed away by the weather and anointed 
by the slime of ditches. It looked very much as Mliss had 
in days past. Its one gown of faded stuff was dirty and 
ragged as hers had been. Mliss had never been known to 
apply to it any childish term of endearment. She never 
exiubited it in the presence of other children. It was out 


20 


Mliss. 


severely to bed in a hollow tree near the schoolhouse, and 
only allowed exercise during Mliss’s rambles. Fulfilling a 
stern duty to her doll, as she would to herself, it knew no 
luxuries. 

Now Mrs. Morpher, obeying a commendable impulse, 
bought another doll and gave it to Mliss. The child 
received it gravely and curiously. The master, on looking 
at it one day, fancied he saw a slight resemblance in its 
round red cheeks and mild blue eyes to Clytemnestra. It 
became evident before long that Mliss had also noticed the 
same resemblance. Accordingly she hammered its waxen 
head on the rocks when she was alone, and sometimes 
dragged it with a string round its neck to and from 
school. At other times, setting it up on her desk, she 
made a pincushion of its patient and inoffensive body. 
Whether this was done in revenge of what she considered a 
second figurative obtrusion of Clyde’s excellences upon her, 
or whether she had an intuitive appreciation of the rites 
of certain other heathens, and, indulging in that “ fetish ” 
ceremony, imagined that the original of her wax model 
would pine away and finally die, is a metaphysical question 
I shall not now consider. 

In spite of these moral vagaries, the master could not 
help noticing in her different tasks the working of a quick, 
restless, ana vigorous conception. She knew neither the 
hesitancy nor the doubts of childhood. Her answers in 
class were always slightly dashed with audacity. Of course 
she was not infallible. But her courage and dari»g in 
passing beyond her own depth and that of the floundering 
little swimmers around her, in their minds outweighed all 
errors of judgment Children are not better than grown 
people in this respect, I fancy ; and whenever the little red 
hand flashed above her desk, there was a wondering silence, 


Mliss. 


21 


And even the master was sometimes oppressed with a doubt 
of his own experience and judgment. 

Nevertheless, certain attributes which at first amused and 
entertained his fancy began to affiict him with grave doubts. 
He could not but see that Mliss was revengeful, irreverent, -- 
and wilful. That there was but one better quality which 
pertained to her semi-savage disposition, — the faculty of 
physical fortitude and self-sacrifice ; and another, though not 
always an attribute of the noble savage, — truth. Mliss was 

both fearless and sincere ; perhaps in such a character the 
adjectives were synonymous. 

The master had been doing some hard thinking on this 
subject, and had arrived at that conclusion quite common 
to all who think sincerely, that he was generally the slave 
of his own prejudices, when he determined to call on the 
Rev. McSnagley for advice. This decision was somewhat 
humiliating to his pride, as he and McSnagley were not 
friends. But he thought of Mliss and the evening of their 
first meeting; and perhaps with a pardonable superstition 
that it was not chance alone that had guided her wilful feet 
to the schoolhouse, and perhaps with a complacent con- 
sciousness of the rare magnanimity of the act, he choked 
back his dislike and went to McSnagley. 

The reverend gentleman was glad to see him. More- 
over, he observed that the master was looking “ peartish,” 
and hoped he had got over the “ neuralgy ” and “rheu- 
matiz.” He himself had been troubled with a dumb “ager” 
since last Conference. But he had learned to “ rastle and 
pray.” 

Pausing a moment to enable the master to write his cer- 
tain method of curing the dumb “ager” upon the book and 
volume of his brain, Mr. McSnagley proceeded to inquire 
after Sister Morpher. “She is an adornment to Chris/is 
wanity, and has a likely growin’ young family,” added Mr. 


22 


M/zss. 


McSnagley ; “ and there’s that mannerly young gal, — so 
well behaved, — Miss Clyde.” In fact, Clytie’s perfections 
seemed to affect him to such an extent that he dwelt for 
several minutes upon them. The master was doubly 
embarrassed. In the first place, there was an enforced 
contrast with poor Mliss in all this praise of Clytie. 
Secondly, there was something unpleasantly confidential in 
his tone of speaking of Mrs. Morpher’s earliest born. So 
that the master, after a few futile efforts to say something 
natural, found it convenient to recall another engagement, 
and left without asking the information required, but in his 
after reflections somewhat unjustly giving the Rev. Mr. 
McSnagley the full benefit of having refused it. 

Perhaps this rebuff placed the master and pupil once 
more in the close communion of old. The child seemed 
to notice the change in the master’s manner, which had of 
late been constrained, and in one of their long postprandial 
walks she stopped suddenly, and mounting a stump, looked 
full in his face with big, searching eyes. “ You ain’t mad ?” 
said she, with an interrogative shake of the black braids. 
“No.” “ Nor bothered ? ” “No.” “ Nor hungry ?” (Hun- 
ger was to Mliss a sickness that might attack a person 
at any momept.) “No.” “Nor thinking of her?” “Of 
whom, Lissy?” “That white girl.” (This was the latest 
epithet invented by Mliss, who was a very dark brunette, to 
express Clytemnestra.) “No.” “ Upon your word ? ” (A 

substitute for “ Hope you’ll die ? ” proposed by the inaster.) 
“Yes.” “And sacred honour?” “Yes.” Then Mliss 
gave him a fierce little kiss, and, hopping down, fluttered 
off. For two or three days after that she condescended to 
appear more like other children, and be, as she expressed 
it, “good.” 

Two years had passed since the master’s advent at 
Smith’s Pocket, and as his salary was not large, and the 


Mliss, 


23 


prospects of Smithes Pocket eventually becoming the capital 
of the State not entirely definite, he contemplated a change. 
Ke had informed the school trustees privately of his inten- 
tions, but, educated young men of unblemished moral 
character being scarce at that time, he consented to con- 
tinue his school term through the winter to early spring. 
None else knew of his intention except his one friend, a 
Dr. Duchesne, a young Creole physician, known to the 
people of Wingdam as “ Duchesny.” He never mentioned 
it to Mrs. Morpher, Clytie, or any of his scholars. His 
reticence was partly the result of a constitutional indisposi- 
tion to fuss, partly a desire to be spared the questions and 
surmises of vulgar curiosity, and partly that he never really 
believed he was going to do anything before it was done. 

He did not like to think of Mliss. It was a selfish in- 
stinct, perhaps, which made him try to fancy his feeling for 
the child was foolish, romantic, and unpractical. He even 
tried to imagine that she would do better under the control 
of an older and sterner teacher. Then she was nearly eleven, 
and in a few years, by the rules of Red Mountain, would be 
a woman. He had done his duty. After Smith’s death he 
addressed letters to Smith’s relatives, and received one 
answer from a sister of Melissa’s mother. Than^ng the 
master, she stated her intention of leaving the Atlantic 
States for California with her husband in a few months. 
This was a slight superstructure for the airy castle which the 
master pictured for Mliss’s home, but it was easy to fancy 
that some loving, sympathetic woman, with, the claims of 
kindred, might better guide her wayward nature. Yet, when 
the master had read the letter, Mliss listened to it carelessly, 
received it submissively, and afterwards cut figures out of 
it with her scissors, supposed to represent Clytemnestra. 
labelled ‘‘the white girl,” to prevent mistakes, and impaled 
them upon the outer walls of the schoolhouse. 


24 


M/zss. 


When the summer was about spent, and the last harvest 
had been gathered in the valleys, the master bethought him 
of gathering in a few ripened shoots of the young idea, 
and of having his harvest-home, or examination. So the 
savans and professionals of Smith’s Pocket were gathered 
to witness that time-honoured custom of placing timid 
children in a constrained position, and bullying them as in 
a witness-box. As usual in such cases, the most audacious 
and self-possessed were the lucky recipients of the honours 
The reader will imagine that in the present instance Mliss 
and Clytie were pre-eminent, and divided public attention : 
Mliss with her clearness of material perception an4 self- 
reliance, Clytie with her placid self-esteem and saint-like 
correctness of deportment. The other little ones were 
timid and blundering. Mliss’s readiness and brilliancy, of 
course, captivated the greatest number and provoked the 
greatest applause. Mliss’s antecedents had unconsciously 
awakened the strongest sympathies of a class whose athletic 
forms were ranged against the walls, or whose handsome 
bearded faces looked in at the windows. But Mliss’s popu- 
larity was overthrown by an unexpected circumstance. 

McSnagley had invited himself, and had been going 
through the pleasing entertainment of frightening the more 
timid pupils by the vaguest and most ambiguous questions 
delivered in an impressive funereal tone ; and Mliss had 
soared into astronomy, and was tracking the course of our 
spotted ball through space, and keeping time with the music 
of the spheres, and defining the tethered orbits of the 
planets, when McSnagley impressively arose. “ Meelissy ! 
ye were speaking of the i evolutions of this yere yearth and 
the mo\e-ments of the sun,- and I think ye said it had been 
a doing of it since the creashun, eh ? ” Mliss nodded a 
Bccinful affirmative. “Well, war that the truth?” said 
McSnagley, folding his arms. “ Yes,” said Mliss, shutting 


Mliss, 


up her little red lips tightly. The handsome outlines at 
the windows peered further in the schoolroom, and a 
saintly Raphael face, with blonde beard and soft blue eyes, 
belonging to the biggest scamp in the diggings, turned 
toward the child and whispered, “Stick to it, Mliss !” 
The reverend gentleman heaved a deep sigh, and cast a 
compassionate glance at the master, then at the children, and 
then rested his look on Clytie. That young woman softly 
elevated her round white arm. Its seductive curves were 
enhanced by a gorgeous and massive specimen bracelet, the 
gift of one of her humblest worshippers, worn in honour of the 
occasion. There was a momentary silence. Clyde’s round 
cheeks were very pink and soft. Clytie’s big eyes were very 
bright and blue. Clytie’s low-necked white book-muslin 
tested softly on Clytie’s white, plump shoulders. Clytie 
looked at the master, and the master nodded. Then 
Clytie spoke softly : — 

“Joshua commanded the sun to stand still, and it obeyed 
him I ” There was a low hum of applause in the school- 
room, a triumphant expression on McSnagley’s face, a grave 
shadow on the master’s, and a comical look of disappoint- 
ment reflected from the windows. Mliss skimmed rapidly 
over her astronomy, and then shut the book with a loud 
vjnap. A groan burst from McSnagley, an expression of 
astonishment from the schoolroom, a yell from the windows 
as Mliss brought her red fist down on the desk with the 
emphatic declaration — 

“ It’s a d — n lie. I don’t believe it 1 ® 


26 


MLiss. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The long wet season had drawn near its close. Signs of 
spring were visible in the swelling buds and rushing torrents. 
The pine forests exhaled the fresher spicery. The azaleas 
were already budding, the ceanothus getting ready its lilac 
livery for spring. On the green upland which climbed Red 
Mountain at its southern aspect the long spike of the 
monk’s-hood shot up from its broad-leaved stool, and once 
more shook its dark-blue bells. Again the billow above 
Smith’s grave was soft and green, its crest just tossed with 
the foam of daisies and buttercups. The little graveyard 
had gathered a few new dwellers in the past year, and the 
mounds were placed two by two by the little paling until 
they reached Smith’s grave, and there there was but one. 
General superstition had shunned it, and the plot beside 
Smith was vacant. 

There had been several placards posted about the town, 
intimating that, at a certain pe^ ’od, a celebrated dramatic 
company would perform, for a few days, a series of “side- 
splitting” and “screaming” farces; that, alternating plea- 
santly with this, there would be some melodrama and a grand 
divertisement, which would include singing, dancing, &c. 
These announcements occasioned a great fluttering among 
the little folk, and were the theme of much excitement and 
great speculation among the master’s scholars. The master 
had promised Mliss, to whom this sort of thing was sacred 
and rare, that she should go, and on that momentous 
evening the master and Mliss “assisted.” 

The performance was the prevalent style of heavy medi- 
ocrity ; the melodrama was not bad enough to laugh at nor 
good enough to excite. But the master, turning wearily to 


M/tss. 


27 


the child, was astonished, and felt something like self- 
accusation in noticing the peculiar effect upon her excitable 
nature. The red blood flushed in her cheeks at each stroke 
of her panting little heart. Her small passionate lips were 
slightly parted to give vent to her hurried breath. Her 
widely opened lids threw up and arched her black eyebrows 
She did not laugh at the dismal comicalities of the funny 
man, for Mliss seldom laughed. Nor was she discreetly 
affected to the delicate extremes of the corner of a white 
handkerchief, as was the tender-hearted “ Clyde,” who was 
talking with her “ feller ” and ogling the master at the same 
moment. But when the performance was over, and the 
green curtain fell on the little stage, Mliss drew a long deep 
breath, and turned to the master’s grave face with a half- 
apologetic smile and wearied gesture. Then she said, 
** Now take me home ! ” and dropped the lids of her black 
eyes, as if to dwell once more in fancy on the mimic stage. 

On their way to Mrs. Morpher’s the master thought 
proper to ridicule the whole performance. N 0 w he should n’t 
wonder if Mliss thought that the young lady who acted so 
beautifully was really in earnest, and in love with the gentle- 
man who wore such fine clothes. Well, if she were in love 
with him, it was a very unfortunate thing ! Why ? ” said 
Vlliss, with an upward sweep of the drooping lid. “ Oh ! 
well, he couldn’t support his wife at his present salary, and 
pay so much a week for his fine clothes, and then they 
wouldn’t receive as much wages if they were married as if 
they were merely lovers, — that is,” added the master, “ if 
they are not already married to somebody else ; but I think 
the husband of the pretty young countess takes the tickets 
at the door, or pulls up the curtain, or snuffs the candles, 
or does something equally refined and elegant. As to the 
young man with nice clothes, which are really nice now, 
and must cost at least two and a half or three dollars, noi 


MLiss. 


2S 

to speak of that mantle of red drugget, which I happen to 
know the price of, for I bought some of it for my room 
once, — as to this young man, Lissy, he is a pretty good 
fellow, and if he does drink occasionally, I don’t think 
people ought to take advantage of it and give him black 
eyes and throw him in the mud. Do you ? I am sure he 
might owe me two dollars and a half a long time before I 
would throw it up in his face, as the fellow did the other 
night at Wingdam.” 

Mliss had taken his hand in both of hers and was trying 
to look in his eyes, which the young man kept as resolutely 
averted. Mliss had a faint idea of irony, indulging herself 
sometimes in a species of sardonic humour, which was 
equally visible in her actions and speech. But the young 
man continued in this strain until they had reached Mrs. 
Morpher’s, and he had deposited Mliss in her maternal 
charge. Waiving the invitation of Mrs. Morpher to refresh- 
ment and rest, and shading his eyes with his hand to keep 
out the blue-eyed Clytemnestra’s siren glances, he excused 
himself and went home. 

For two or three days after the advent of the dramatic 
company, Mliss was late at school, and the master’s usual 
Friday afternoon ramble was for once omitted, owing to the 
absence of his trustworthy guide. As he was putting away 
his books and preparing to leave the schoolhouse, a small 
voice piped at his side. “ Please, sir! ” The master turned, 
and there stood Aristides Morpher. 

“ Well, my little man,” said the master impatiently, “ what 
is it ? — quick ! ” 

** Please, sir, me and ‘ Kerg ’ thinks that Mliss is going to 
run away agin.” 

“ What’s that, sir ? ” said the master, with that unjust 
testiness with which we always receive disagreeable news. 

“Why, sir, she don’t stay home any more, and ‘Kerg 


Miiss. 


29 


and me see her talking with one of those actor fellers, and 
-she’s with him now; and please, sir, yesterday she told 
‘ Kerg ’ and me she could make a speech as well as Miss 
Cellerstina Montmoressy, and she spouted right off by heart,” 
and the little fellow paused in a collapsed condition. 

** What actor ? ” asked the master. 

“ Him as wears the shiny hat. And hair. And gold pirn 
And gold chain,” said the just Aristides, putting periods for 
commas to eke out his breath. 

The master put on his gloves and hat, feeling an un- 
pleasant tightness in his chest and thorax, and walked out 
in the road. Aristides trotted along by his side, endeavour- 
ing to keep pace with his short legs to the master’s strides, 
when the master stopped suddenly, and Aristides bumped 
up against him. “Where were they talking?” asked the 
master, as if continuing the conversation. 

“ At the Arcade,” said Aristides. 

When they reached the main street the master paused. 
** Run down home,” said he to the boy. “ If Miiss is there, 
come to the Arcade and tell me. If she isn’t there, stay 
home ; run ! ” And off trotted the short-legged Aristides. 

The Arcade was just across the way, — a long, rambling 
building containing a bar-room, billiard-room, and restaurant 
As the young man crossed the plaza he noticed that two or 
three of the passers-by turned and looked after him. He 
looked at his clothes, took out his handkerchief and wiped 
his face before he entered the bar-room. It contained the 
usual number of loungers, who stared at him as he entered. 
One of them looked at him so fixedly and with such a strange 
expression that the master stopped and looked again, and 
then saw it was only his own reflection in a large mirror. 
This made the master think that perhaps he was a little 
excited, and so he took up a copy of the Red Mountain 


30 


Mliss, 


Banner from one of the tables, and tried to recover his com- 
posure by reading the column of advertisements. 

He then walked through the bar-room, through the res- 
taurant, and into the billiard-room. The child was not 
there. In the latter apartment a person was standing by 
one of the tables with a broad-brimmed glazed hat on hi» 
head. The master recognised him as the agent of the 
dramatic company ; he had taken a dislike to him at their 
first meeting, from the peculiar fashion of wearing his beard 
and hair. Satisfied that the object of his search was not 
there, he turned to the man with the glazed hat. He had 
noticed the master, but tried that common trick of uncon- 
sciousness, in which vulgar natures always fail. Balancing 
a billiard-cue in his hand, he pretended to play with a ball 
in the centre of the table. The master stood opposite to 
him until he raised his eyes ; when their glances met, the 
master walked up to him. 

He had intended to avoid a scene or quarrel, but when 
he began to speak, something kept rising in his throat and 
retarded his utterance, and his own voice frightened him, 
it sounded so distant, low, and resonant. 

“I understand,” he began, “that Melissa Smith, an 
orphan, and one of my scholars, has talked with you 
about adopting your profession. Is that so ? ” 

The man with the glazed hat leaned over the table, and 
made an imaginary shot, that sent the ball spinning round 
the cushions. Then walking round the table he recovered 
the ball and placed it upon the spot. This duty discharged, 
getting ready for another shot, he said — 

“ S’pose she has ? ” 

The master choked up again, but, squeezing the cushion 
cf the table in his gloved hand, he went on — 

“ If you are a gentleman, I have only to tell you that 1 
am her guardian, and responsible for her career. You 


Mliss. 


3 ^ 

know as well as I doi' the kind of life you offer her. As 
you may learn of any one here, I have already brought her 
out of an existence worse than death, — out of the streets 
and the contamination of vice. I am trying to do so again. 
Let us talk like men. She has neither father, mother, 
sister, or brother. Are you seeking to give her an equivalent 
for these ? ” 

The man with the glazed hat examined the point of his 
cue, and then looked around for somebody to enjoy the 
joke with him. 

“ I know that she is a strange, wilful girl,” continued the 
master, “ but she is better than she was. I believe that I 
have some influence over her still. I beg and hope, 
therefore, that you will take no further steps in this matter, 
but as a man, as a gentleman, leave her to me. I am 

willing ” But here something rose again in the master’s 

throat, and the sentence remained unfinished. 

The man with the glazed hat, mistaking the master’s 
silence, raised his head with a coarse, brutal laugh, and said 
in a loud voice — 

“Want her yourself, do you? That cock won’t fight 
here, young man ! ” 

The insult was more in the tone than the words, more 
in the glance than tone, and more in the man’s instinctive 
nature than all these. The best appreciable rhetoric to 
this kind of animal is a blow. The master felt this, and, 
with his pent up, nervous energy finding expression in the 
one act, he struck the brute full in his grinning face. The 
jlow sent the glazed hat one way and the cue another, and 
tore the glove and skin from the master’s hand from knuckle 
to joint It opened up the corners of the fellow’s mouth, 
and spoilt the peculiar shape of his beard for some time to 
come. 

There was a shout, an imprecation, a scuffle, and the 


32 


Mliss. 


trampling of many feet. Then the crowd parted right and 
left, and two sharp quick reports followed each other in 
rapid succession. Then they closed again about his 
opponent, and the master was standing alone. He re- 
membered picking bits of burning wadding from his coat- 
sleeve with his left hand. Some one was holding his other 
hand. Looking at it, he saw it was still bleeding from the 
blow, but his fingers were clenched around the handle of a 
glittering knife. He could not remember when or how he 
got it. 

The man who was holding his hand was Mr. Morpher. 
He hurried the master to the door, but the master held 
back, and tried to tell him as well as he could with his 
parched throat about “Mliss.” “It’s all right, my boy,” 
said Mr. Morpher. “ She’s home ! ” And they passed out 
into the street together. As they w^alked along Mr. Morpher 
said that Mliss had come running into the house a few 
moments before, and had dragged him out, saying that 
somebody was trying to kill the master at the Arcade. 
Wishing to be alone, the master promised Mr. Morpher 
that he would not seek the agent again that night, and 
parted from him, taking the road toward the schoolhouse. 
He was surprised on nearing it to find the door open, — still 
more surprised to find Mliss sitting there. 

The master’s nature, as I have hinied before, had, like 
most sensitive organisations, a selfish basis. The brutal 
taunt thrown out by his late adversary still rankled in nis 
heart. It was possible, he thought, that such a construction 
might be put upon his affection for the child, which at best 
was foolish and Quixotic. Besides, had she not voluntarily 
abnegated his authority and affection? And what had 
everybody else said about her? Why should he alone 
combat the opinion of all, and be at last obliged tacitly 
to confess the truth of all they had predicted? And ha 


Mlzss. 


33 


had been a participant in a low bar-room fight with a 
common boor, and risked his life, to prove what? What 
had he proved? Nothing ! What would the people say? 
What would his friends say? What would McSnagley 
say? 

In his self-accusation the last person he should have 
wished to meet was Mliss. He entered the door, and, 
going up to his desk, told the child, in a few cold words, 
that he was busy and wished to be alone. As she rose he 
took her vacant seat, and, sitting down, buried his head in 
his hands. When he looked up again she was still standing 
there. She was looking at his face with an anxious expres- 
sion. 

“ Did you kill him ? ” she asked. 

“ No ! ” said the master. 

** That’s what I gave you the knife for ! ” said the child, 
quickly. 

“ Gave me the knife ? ” repeated the master, in bewilder* 
ment. 

“Yes, gave you the knife. I was there under the bar. 
Saw you hit him. Saw you both fall. He dropped his old 
knife. I gave it to you. Why didn’t you stick him ? ” said 
Mliss rapidly, with an expressive twinkle of the black eyes 
and a gesture of the little red hand. 

The master could only look his astonishment. 

“ Yes,” said Mliss. “ If you’d asked me, Td told you I 
was off with the playactors. Why was I off with the play- 
actors? Because you wouldn t tell me you was going away. 
I knew it. I heard you tel! the Doctor so. I wasn’t a 
coin’ to stay here alone with those Morphers. I’d rather 
die first.” 

With a dramatic gesture which was perfectly consistent 
with her character, she drew from her bosom a few limp 
green leaves, and, holding them out at arm’s-length, said in 

VOL. II. c 


34 


Mliss. 


her quick vivid way, and in the queer pronunciation of her 
old life, which she fell into when unduly excited — 

“ That’s the poison plant you said would kill me. I’ll go 
with the playactors, or I’ll eat this and die here. I don’t 
care which. I won’t stay here, where they hate and despise 
me ! Neither would you let me, if you didn’t hate and 
despise me too ! ” 

The passionate little breast heaved, and two big tears 
peeped over the edge of Mliss’s eyelids, but she whisked 
them away with the corner of her apron as if they had been 
wasps. 

“ If you lock me up in jail,” said Mliss fiercely, “ to keep 
me from the playactors, I’ll poison myself. Father killed 
himself, — why shouldn’t I ? You said a mouthful of that 
root would kill me, and I always carry it here,” and she 
struck her breast with her clenched fist. 

The master thought of the vacant plot beside Smith’s 
grave, and of the passionate little figure before him. Seizing 
her hands in his and looking full into her truthful eyes, he 
said — 

“Lissy, will you go with me?** 

The child put her arms around his neck, and said joy- 
fully, “Yes.” 

“ But now — to-night ? ” 

“To-night ! ” 

And, hand in hand, they passed into the road, — the 
narrow road that had once brought her weary feet to the 
master’s door, and which it seemed she should not tread 
again alone. The stars glittered brightly above them. For 
good or ill the lesson had been learned, and behind them 
scho:)l of Red Mountain closed upon them for ever- 


( 35 ) 


5>ig!)=(S[later 

When the tide was out on the Dedlow Marsh, its extended 
dreariness was patent. Its spongy, low-lying surface, 
sluggish, inky pools, and tortuous sloughs, twisting their 
slimy way, eel like, toward the open bay, were all hard facts. 
So were the few green tussocks, with their scant blades, 
their amphibious flavour, and unpleasant dampness. And 
if you chose to indulge your fancy,— although the flat 
monotony of the Dedlow Marsh was not inspiring, — the 
wavy line of scattered drift gave an unpleasant conscious- 
ness of the spent waters, and made the dead certainty of 
the returning tide a gloomy reflection, which no present 
sunshine could dissipate. The greener meadow-land 
seemed oppressed with this idea, and made no positive 
attempt at vegetation until the work of reclamation should 
be complete. In the bitter fruit of the low cranberry bushes 
one might fancy he detected a naturally sweet disposition 
curdled and soured by an injudicious course of too much 
regular cold water. 

The vocal expression of the Dedlow Marsh was also 
melancholy and depressing. The sepulchral boom of the 
bittern, the shriek of the curlew, the scream of passing 
brent, the wrangling of quarrelsome teal, the sharp querulous 
protest of the startled crane, and syllabled complaint of the 
*‘kildeer” plover were beyond the power of written expres- 
sion. Nor was the aspect of these mournful fowls at all 


36 High- Water Mark. 

cheerful and inspiring. Certainly not the blue heron 
standing midleg deep in the water, obviously catching cold 
in a reckless disregard of wet feet and consequences ; noi 
the mournful curlew, the dejected plover, or the low- 
spirited snipe, who saw fit to join him in his suicidal 
contemplation; nor the impassive kingfisher — an ornitho- 
logical Marius — reviewing the desolate expanse; nor the 
black raven that went to •and fro over the face of the marsh 
continually, but evidently couldn’t make up his mind 
whether the waters had subsided, and felt low-spirited in 
the reflection that, after all this trouble, he wouldn’t be able 
to give a definite answer. On the contrary, it was evident 
at a glance that the dreary expanse of Dedlow Marsh told 
unpleasantly on the birds, and that the season of migration 
was looked forward to with a feeling of relief and satisfaction 
by the full grown, and of extravagant anticipation by the 
callow brood. But if Dedlow Marsh was cheerless at the 
slack of the low tide, you should have seen it when the 
tide was strong and full. When the damp air blew chilly 
over the cold glittering expanse, and came to the faces of 
those who looked seaward like another tide ; when a steel- 
like glint marked the low hollows and the sinuous line of 
slough ; when the great’ shell-incrusted trunks of fallen trees 
arose again, and went forth on their dreary purposeless 
wanderings, drifting hither and thither, but getting no 
farther toward any goal at the falling tide or the day’s 
decline than the cursed Hebrew in the legend ; when the 
glossy ducks swung silently, making neither ripple nor 
furrow on the shimmering surface ; when the fog came in 
with the tide and shut out the blue above, even as the green 
oelow had been obliterated; when boatmen, lost in that 
fog, paddling about in a hopeless way, started at what 
seemed the brushing of mermen’s fingers on the boat’s keel, 
•r siirank from the tufts of grass spreading around like the 


37 


H igh- Water Mark. 

floating hair of a corpse, and knew by these signs that they 
were lost upon Dedlow Marsh, and must make a night of 
it, and a gloomy one at that, — then you might know some- 
thing of Dedlow Marsh at high water. 

Let me recall a story connected with this latter view 
which never failed to recur to my mind in my long gunning 
excursions upon Dedlow Marsh. Although the event was 
briefly recorded in the county paper, I had the story, in all 
its eloquent detail, from the lips of the principal actor. I 
cannot hope to catch the varying emphasis and peculiar 
colouring of feminine delineation, for my narrator was a 
woman ; but I’ll try to give at least its substance. 

She lived midway of the great slough of Dedlow Marsh 
and a good-sized river, which debouched four miles beyond 
into an estuary formed by the Pacific Ocean, on the long 
sandy peninsula which constituted the south-western boun- 
dary of a noble bay. The house in which she lived was a 
small frame cabin raised from the marsh a few feet by stout 
piles, and was three miles distant from the settlements upon 
the river. Her husband was a logger, — a profitable business 
in a county where the principal occupation was the manu- 
facture of lumber. 

It was the season of early spring, when her husband left 
on the ebb of a high tide with a raft of logs for the usual 
transportation to the lower end of the bay. As she sLooa 
by the door of the little cabin when the voyagers departed, 
she noticed a cold look in the south-eastern sky, and she 
remembered hearing her husband say to his companions 
that they must endeavour to complete their voyage before 
the coming of the south-westerly gale which he saw brewing. 
And that night it began to storm and blow harder than 
she had ever before experienced, and some great trees fell 
m the forest by the river, and the house rocked like hei 
Daby's cradle. 


3S High- Water Mark, 

But however the storm might roar about the little cabin, 
she knew that one she trusted had driven bolt and bar 
with his own strong hand, and that had he feared for her 
he would not have left her. This, and her domestic 
duties, and the care of her little sickly ^aby, helped to 
keep her mind from dwelling on the weather, except, of 
course, to hope that he was safely harboured with the logs 
at Utopia in the dreary distance. But she noticed that 
day, when she went out to feed the chickens and look 
after the cow, that the tide was up to the little fence of 
their garden patch, and the roar of the surf on the south 
beach, though miles away, she could hear distinctly. And 
she began to think that she would like to have some one 
to talk with about matters, and she believed that if it had 
not been so far and so stormy, and the trail so impassable, 
she would have taken the baby and have gone over to 
Ryckman’s, her nearest neighbour. But then, you see, he 
might have returned in the storm, all wet, with no one to 
see to him ; and it was a long exposure for baby, who was 
croupy and ailing. 

But that night, she never could tell why, she didn’t feel 
like sleeping or even lying down. The storm had some- 
what abated, but she still “ sat and sat,” and even tried to 
read. I don’t know whether it was a Bible or some profane 
magazine that this poor woman read, but most probably 
the latter, for the words all ran together and made such 
sad nonsense that she was forced at last to put the book 
down and turn to that dearer volume which lay before her 
in the cradle, with its white initial leaf as yet unsoiled, and 
try to look forward to its mysterious future. And, rocking 
the cradle, she thought of everything and everybody, but 
still was wide awake as ever. 

It was nearly twelve o’clock when she at last lay down 
in liCT clothes. How long she slept she could not remem« 


39 


High- Water Mark. 

ber, but she awoke with a dreadful choking in her throat, 
and found herself standing, trembling all over, in the 
middle of the room, with her baby clasped to her breast, 
and she was “saying something.” The baby cried and 
sobbed, and she walked up and down trying to hush it, 
when she heard a scratching at the door. She opened 
it fearfully, and was glad to see it was only old Pete, 
their dog, who crawled, dripping with water, into the 
room. She would like to have looked out, not in the 
faint hope of her husband’s coming, but to see how 
things looked; but the wind shook the dooi so savagely 
that she could hardly hold it. Then she sat down a little 
while, and then walked up and down a little while, and 
then she lay down again a little while. Lying close by 
the wal) of the little cabin, she thought she heard once 
or twice something scrape slowly against the clapboards, 
like the scraping of branches. Then there was a little 
gurgling sound, “like the baby made when it was swallow- 
ing ; ” then something went “ click-click ” and “ cluck- 
cluck,” so that she sat up in bed. When she did so she 
was attracted by something else that seemed creeping from 
the back door towards the centre of the room. It wasn’t 
much wider than her little finger, but soon it swelled to the 
width of her hand, and began spreading all over the floor. 
It was water. 

She ran to the front door and threw it wide open, and 
saw nothing but water. She ran to the back door and 
threw it open, and saw nothing but water. She ran to 
the side window, and throwing that open, she saw nothing 
but water. Then she remembered hearing her husband 
once say that there was no danger in the tide, for that 
fell regularly, and people could calculate on it, and that 
he would rather live near the bay than the river, whose 
banks might overflow at any time. But was it the tide? 


40 High- Water Mark, 

*So she ran again to the back door, and threw out a 
stick of wood. It drifted away towards the bay. She 
scooped up some of the water and put it eagerly to her 
lips. It was fresh and sweet. It was the river, and not 
the tide ! 

It was then — O God be praised for His goodness ! 
she did neither faint nor fall ; it was then — blessed be 
the Saviour, for it was His merciful hand that touched 
and strengthened her in this awful moment — that fear 
dropped from her like a garment, and her trembling 
ceased. It was then and thereafter that she never lost 
her self-command, through all the trials of that gloomy 
night. 

She drew the bedstead towards the middle of the room, 
and placed a table upon it, and on that she put the cradle. 
The water on the floor was already over her ankles, and 
the house once or twice moved so perceptibly, and seemed 
to be racked so, that the closet doors all flew open. Then 
she heard the same rasping and thumping against the wall, 
and, looking out, saw that a large uprooted tree, which 
had lain near the road at the upper end of the pasture, 
had floated down to the house. Luckily its long roots 
dragged in the soil and kept it from moving as rapidly as 
the current, for had it struck the house in its full career, 
even the strong nails and bolts in the piles could not 
have withstood the shock. The hound had leaped upon 
its knotty surface, and crouched near the roots shivering 
and whining. A ray of hope flashed across her mind. 
She drew a heavy blanket from the bed, and, wrapping 
it about the babe, waded in the deepening waters to the 
door. As the tree swung again, broadside on, making 
the little cabin creak and tremble, she leaped on to its 
trunk. By God’s mercy she succeeded in obtaining a 
tooting on its slippery surface, and twining an arm about 


High- Water Mark. 41 

its roots, she held in the other her moaning child. Then 
something cracked near the front porch, and the whole 
front of the house she had just quitted fell forward, — ^just 
as cattle fall on their knees before they lie down, — and 
at the same moment the great redwood tree swung round 
and drifted away with its living cargo into the black 
night. 

For all the excitement and danger, for all her soothing of 
her crying babe, for all the whistling of the wind, for all the 
uncertainty of her situation, she still turned to look at the 
deserted and water-swept cabin. She remembered even 
then, and she wonders how foolish she was to think of it at 
that time, that she wished she had put on another dress and 
the baby’s best clothes; and she kept praying that the 
house would be spared so that he, when he returned, would 
have something to come to, and it wouldn’t be quite so 
desolate, and — how could he ever know what had become 
of her and baby ? And at the thought she grew sick and 
faint. But she had something else to do besides worry- 
ing, for whenever the long roots of her ark struck an ob- 
stacle, the whole trunk made half a revolution, and twice 
dipped her in the black water. The hound, who kept 
distracting her by running up and down the tree and 
howling, at last fell off at one of these collisions. He swam 
for some time beside her, and she tried to get the poor 
beast upon the tree, but he “ acted silly ” and wild, and at 
last she lost sight of him for ever. Then she and her baby 
were left alone. The light which had burned for a few 
minutes in the deserted cabin was quenched suddenly. 
She could not then tell whither she was drifting. The 
outline of the white dunes on the peninsula showed dimly 
ahead, and she judged the tree was moving in a line with 
the river. It must be about slack water, and she had 
probably reached the eddy formed by the confluence of the 


4a 


High- Water Mark. 

tide and the overflowing waters of the river. Unless the 
tide fell soon, there was present danger of her drifting to its 
channel, and being carried out to sea or crushed in the 
floating drift. That peril averted, if she were carried out 
on the ebb toward the bay, she might hope to strike one 
cf the wooded promontories of the peninsula, and rest till 
daylight. Sometimes she thought she heard voices and 
shouts from the river, and the bellowing of cattle and 
bleating of sheep. Then again it was only the ringing in 
her ears and throbbing of her heart. She found at about 
this time that she was so chilled and stiffened in her 
cramped position that she could scarcely move, and the 
baby cried so when she put it to her breast that she noticed 
the milk refused to flow ; and she was so frightened at 
that, that she put her head under her shawl, and for the 
first time cried bitterly. 

When she raised her head again, the boom of the surf 
was behind her, and she knew that her ark had again swung 
round. She dipped up the water to cool her parched 
throat, and found that it was salt as her tears. There was 
a relief, though, for by this sign she knew that she was 
drifting with the tide. It was then the wind went down, 
and the great and awful silence oppressed her. There was 
scarcely a ripple against the furrowed sides of the great 
trunk on which she rested, and around her all was black 
gloom and quiet. She spoke to the baby just to hear 
herself speak, and to know that she had not lost her voice. 
She thought then, — it was queer, but she could not help 
thinking it, — how awful must have been the night when the 
great ship swung over the Asiatic peak, and the sounds of 
creation were blotted out from the world. She thought, 
too, of mariners clinging to spars, and ot poor women who 
were lashed to rafts and beaten to death by the cruel sea. 
She tried to thank God that she was thus spared, and 


High- Water Mark. 43 

lifted her eyes from the baby who had fallen into a fretful 
sleep. Suddenly, away to the southward, a great light 
lifted itself out of the gloom, and flashed and flickered, and 
flickered and flashed again. Her heart fluttered quickly 
against the baby’s cold cheek. It was the lighthouse at 
the entrance of the bay. As she was yet wondering, the 
tree suddenly rolled a little, dragged a little, and then 
seemed to lie quiet and still. She put out her hand and 
the current gurgled against it. The tree was aground, and, 
by the position of the light and the noise of the surf, 
aground upon the Dedlow Marsh. 

Had it not been for her baby, who was ailing and croupy, 
had it not been for the sudden drying up of that sensitive 
fountain, she would have felt safe and relieved. Perhaps it 
was this which tended to make all her impressions mournful 
and gloomy. As the tide rapidly fell, a great flock of black 
brent fluttered by her, screaming and crying. Then the 
plover flew up and piped mournfully as they wheeled 
around the trunk, and at last fearlessly lit upon it like a 
grey cloud. Then the heron flew over and around her 
shrieking and protesting, and at last dropped its gaunt legs 
only a few yards from her. But, strangest of all, a pretty 
white bird, larger than a dove, — like a pelican, but not a 
pelican, — circled around and around her. At last it lit 
upon a rootlet of the tree quite over her shoulder. She 
put out her hand and stroked its beautiful white neck, and 
it never appeared to move. It stayed there so long that 
she thought she would lift up the baby to see it and try to 
attract her attention. But when she did so, the child was 
so chilled and cold, and had such a blue look under the 
ittle lashes which it didn’t raise at all, that she screamed 
aloud, and the bird flew away, and she fainted. 

Well, that was the worst of it, and perhaps it was not so 
much, after all, to any but herself For when she recovered 


4 4 High- Water Mark, 

her senses it was bright sunlight and dead low water. 
There was a confused noise of guttural voices about her, 
and an old squaw, singing an Indian “ hushaby,” and rock- 
ing herself from side to side before a fire built on the marsh, 
before which she, the recovered wife and mother, lay weak 
and weary. Her first thought was for her baby, and she 
was about to speak, when a young squaw, who must have 
been a mother herself, fathomed her thought and brought 
her the ■ ‘ mowitch,” pale but living, in such a queer little 
willow cradle, all bound up, just like the squaw’s own young 
one, that she laughed and cried together, and the young 
squaw and the old squaw showed their big white teeth and 
glinted their black eyes and said, “ Plenty get well, skeena 
mowitch,” “ Wagee man come plenty soon,” and she could 
have kissed their brown faces in her joy. And then she 
found that they had been gathering berries on the marsh in 
their queer, comical baskets, and saw the skirt of her gown 
fluttering on the tree from afar, and the old squaw couldn’t 
resist the temptation of procuring a new garment, and came 
down and discovered the “ wagee ” woman and child. And 
of course she gave the garment to the old squaw, as you 
may imagine, and when he came at last and rushed up to 
her, looking about ten years older in his anxiety, she felt 
so faint again that they had to carry her to the canoe. For, 
you see, he knew nothing about the flood until he met the 
Indians at Utopia, and knew by the signs that the poor 
woman was his wife. And at the next high tide he towed 
the tree away back home, although it wasn’t worth the 
trouble, and built another house, using the old tree for the 
^undation and props, and called it after her, “Mary’s 
Ark ! ” But you may guess the next house was built above 
high-water mark. And that’s all. 

Not much, perhaps, considering the malevolent capacity 


45 


High Water Mark, 

tf the Dedlow Marsh. But you must tramp over it at low 
water, or paddle over it at high tide, or get lost upon it 
once or twice in the fog, as I have, to understand properly 
Mary’s adventure, or to appreciate duly the blessings of 
living beyond high-water mark. 


( 46 ) 


9 ILonelg Kitie. 

A* I stepped into the Slumgullion stage I saw that it was a 
dark night, a lonely road, and that I was the only passenger. 
Let me assure the reader that I have no ulterior design in 
making this assertion. A long course of light reading has 
forewarned me what every experienced intelligence must 
confidently look for from such a statement The storyteller 
who wilfully tempts fate by such obvious beginnings, who 
is to the expectant reader in danger of being robbed or half- 
murdered, or frightened by an escaped lunatic, or introduced 
to his lady-love for the first time, deserves to be detected. 
I am relieved to say that none of these things occurred to 
me. The road from Wingdam to Slumgullion knew no other 
banditti than the regularly licensed hotelkeepers ; lunatics 
had not yet reached such depth of imbecility as to ride of 
their own free will in Californian stages ; and my Laura, 
amiable and long-suffering as she always is, could not, I feaf, 
have borne up against these depressing circumstances long 
enough to have made the slightest impression on me. 

I stood with my shawl and carpet-bag in hand, gazing 
doubtingly on the vehicle. Even in the darkness the red 
dust of Wingdam was visible on its roof and sides, and the 
red slime of Slumgullion clung tenaciously to its wheels. I 
opened the door ; the stage creaked uneasily, and in the 
gloomy abyss the swaying straps beckoned me, like ghostly 
hands, to come in now, and have my sufferings out at 
once. 


47 


A Lonely Ride, 

I must not omit to mention the occurrence of a circum- 
stance which struck me as appalling and mysterious. A 
lounger on the steps of the hotel, whom I had reason to 
suppose was not in any way connected with the stage com- 
pany, gravely descended, and, walking toward the conveyance, 
tried the handle of the door, opened it, expectorated in the 
carriage, and returned to the hotel with a serious demeanour. 
Hardly had he resumed his position, when another indivi- 
dual, equally disinterested, impassively walked down the 
steps, proceeded to the back of the stage, lifted it, expecto- 
rated carefully on the axle, and returned slowly and pensively 
to the hotel. A third spectator wearily disengaged himself 
from one of the Ionic columns of the portico and walked to 
the box, remained for a moment in serious and expectorative 
contemplation of the boot, and then returned to his column. 
There was something so weird in this baptism that I grew 
quite nervous. 

Perhaps I was out of spirits. A number of infinitesimal 
annoyances, winding up with the resolute persistency of the 
clerk at the stage-office to enter my name misspelt on the 
waybill, had not predisposed me to cheerfulness. The in- 
mates of the Eureka House, from a social view-point, were 
not attractive. There was the prevailing opinion — so com- 
mon to many honest people — that a serious style of deport- 
ment and conduct toward a stranger indicates high gentility 
and elevated station. Obeying this principle, all hilarity 
ceased on my entrance to supper, and general remark 
merged into the safer and uncompromising chronicle of 
several bad cases of diphtheria, then epidemic at Wingdam. 
When I left the dining-room, with an odd feeling that I 
had been supping exclusively on mustard and tea leaves, I 
stopped a moment at the parlour door. A piano, harmo- 
niously related to the dinner-bell, tinkled responsive to a 
diffident and uncertain touch. On the white wall the shadow 


48 A Lonely Ride, 

of an old and sharp profile was bending over several sym- 
metrical and shadowy curls. “ I sez to Mariar, Mariar, sez 
I, ‘ Praise to the face is open disgrace.* ” I heard no more. 
Dreading some susceptibility to sincere expression on the 
subject of female loveliness, I walked away, checking the 
compliment that otherwise might have risen unbidden 
to my lips, and have brought shame and sorrow to the 
household. ^ 

It was with the memory of these experiences resting 
heavily upon me that I stood hesitatingly before the stage 
door. The driver, about to mount, was for a moment 
illuminated by the open door of the hotel He had the 
wearied look which was the distinguishing expression of 
Wingdam. Satisfied that I was properly way-billed and 
receipted for, he took no further notice of me. I looked 
longingly at the box-seat, but he did not respond to the ap- 
peal I flung my carpet-bag into the chasm, dived recklessly 
after it, and — before I was fairly seated — with a great sigh, a 
creaking of unwilling springs, complaining bolts, and harshly 
expostulating axle, we moved away. Rather the hotel door 
slipped behind, the sound of the piano sank to rest, and 
the night and its shadows moved solemnly upon us. 

To say it was dark expressed but faintly the pitchy 
obscurity that encompassed the vehicle. The roadside 
trees were scarcely distinguishable as deeper masses of 
shadow ; I knew them only by the peculiar sodden odour 
that from time to time sluggishly flowed in at the open win- 
dow as we rolled by. We proceeded slowly ; so leisurely 
that, leaning from the carriage, I more than once detected 
the fragrant sigh of some astonished cow, whose ruminating 
repose upon the highway we had ruthlessly disturbed. But 
in the darkness our progress, more the guidance of some 
mysterious instinct than any apparent volition of our own, 
gave an indefinable charm of security to our journey, that 9 


A Lonely Ride. 49 

moment’s hesitation or indecision on the part of the driver 
would have destroyed. 

I had indulged a hope that in the empty vehicle I might 
obtain that rest so often denied me in its crowded condition. 
It was a weak delusion. When I stretched out my limbs it 
was only to find that the ordinary conveniences for making 
several people distinctly uncomfortable were distributed 
throughout my individual frame. At last, resting my arms 
on the straps, by dint of much gymnastic elfort I became 
sufficiently composed to be aware of a more refined species 
of torture. The springs of the stage, rising and falling 
regularly, produced a rhythmical beat, which began to 
painfully absorb my attention. Slowly this thumping 
merged into a senseless echo of the mysterious female of 
the hotel parlour, and shaped itself into this awful and 
benumbing axiom ; — “ Praise-to-the-face-is-open-disgrace. 
Praise-to-the-face-is-open-disgrace.” Inequalities of the road 
only quickened its utterance or drawled it to an exasperating 
length. 

It was of no use to seriously consider the statement. It 
was of no use to except to it indignantly. It was of no use 
to recall the many instances where praise to the face had 
redounded to the everlasting honour of praiser and be- 
praised ; of no use to dwell sentimentally on modest genius 
and courage lifted up and strengthened by open commenda- 
tion; of no use to except to the mysterious female, — to 
picture her as rearing a thin-blooded generation on selfish 
and mechanically- repeated axioms, — all this failed to counter- 
act the monotonous repetition of this sentence. There was 
nothing to do but to give in, and I was about to accept it 
weakly, as we too often treat other illusions of darkness and 
necessity, for the time being, when I becam.e aware of some 
other annoyance that had been forcing itself upon me foi 
the last few moments. How quiet the driver was 1 


50 


A Lonely Ride. 

Was there any driver? Had I any reason to suppose 
that he was not lying gagged and bound on the roadside, 
and the highwayman, with blackened face, who did the thing 
so quietly, driving me — whither? The thing is perfectly 
feasible. And what is this fancy now being jolted out of 
me? A story? It’s of no use to keep it back, particularly 
in this abyssmal vehicle, and here it comes : — I am a Marquis 
— a French Marquis ; French, because the peerage is not so 
well known, and the country is better adapted to romantic 
incident — a Marquis, because the democratic reader delights 
in the nobility. My name is something ligny. I am coming 
from Paris to my country-seat at St. Germain. It is a dark 
night, and I fall asleep and tell my honest coachman, Andrd, 
not to disturb me, and dream of an angel. The carriage at 
last stops at the chateau. It is so dark that, when I alight, 
I do not recognise the face of the footman who holds the 
carriage-door. But what of that ? — peste / I am heavy 
with sleep. The same obscurity also hides the old familiar 
indecencies of the statues on the terrace ; but there is a 
door, and it opens and shuts behind me smartly. Then I 
find myself in a trap, in the presence of the brigand who has 
quietly gagged poor Andr^ and conducted the carriage 
thither. There is nothing for me to do, as a gallant French 
Marquis, but to say, “ Parbleu / ” draw my rapier, and die 
valorously ! I am found, a week or two after, outside a 
deserted cabaret near the barrier, with a hole through my 
ruffled linen, and my pockets stripped. No ; on second 
thoughts, I am rescued, — rescued by the angel I have been 
dreaming of, who is the assumed daughter of the brigand, 
but the real daughter of an intimate friend. 

Looking from the window again, in the vain hope of 
distinguishing the driver, 2 found my eyes were growing 
acxustomed to the darkness. I could see the distant 
horizon, defined by India-inky woods relieving a lighter sky 


A Lonely Ride. 51 

K few stars, widely spaced in this picture, glimmering sadly. 
I noticed again the infinite depth of patient sorrow in their 
serene faces ; and I hope that the Vandal who first applied 
the flippant “ twinkle ” to them may not be driven melan- 
choly mad by their reproachful eyes. I noticed again the 
mystic charm of space, that imparts a sense of individuai 
solitude to each integer of the densest constellation, in- 
volving the smallest star with immeasurable lonelinesi 
Something of this calm and solitude crept over me, and 
I dozed in my gloomy cavern. When I awoke the full 
moon was rising. Seen from my window, it had an in- 
describably unreal and theatrical effect. It was the full 
moon of Nor7na — that remarkable celestial phenomenon 
which rises so palpably to a hushed audience and a sublime 
andante chorus, until the Casta Diva is sung — the “ incon- 
stant moon ” that then and thereafter remains fixed in the 
heavens as though it were a part of the solar system inaugu- 
rated by Joshua. Again the white-robed Druids filed past 
me, again I saw that inrprobable mistletoe cut from that 
impossible oak, and again cold chills ran down my back 
with the first strain of the recitative. The thumping 
springs essayed to beat time, and the private box-like 
obscurity of the vehicle lent a cheap enchantment to the 
view. But it was a vast improvement upon my past 
experience, and I hugged the fond delusion. 

My fears for the driver were dissipated with the rising 
moon A familiar sound had assured me of his presence in 
the full possession of at least one of his most important 
functions. Frequent and full expectoration convinced me 
that his lips were as yet not sealed by the gag of high- 
waymen, and soothed iriy anxious ear. With this load 
lifted from my mind, and assisted by the mild presence of 
Diana, who left, as when she visited Endymion, much of 


52 


A Lonely Ride. 

her splendour outside my cavern, — I looked around the 
empty vehicle. On the forward seat lay a woman’s hair- 
pin. I picked it up with an interest that, however, soon 
abated. There was no scent of the roses to cling to it still, 
not even of hair-oil. No bent or twist in its rigid angles 
betrayed any trait of its wearer’s character. I tried to think 
that it might have been ‘^Mariar’s.” I tried to imagine 
that, confining the symmetrical curls of that girl, it might 
have heard the soft compliments whispered in her ears 
which provoked the wrath of the aged female. But in 
vain. It was reticent and unswerving in its upright 
fidelity, and at last slipped listlessly through my fingers. 

I had dozed repeatedly, — waked on the threshold of 
oblivion by contact with some of the angles of the coach, 
and feeling that I was unconsciously assuming, in imitation 
of a humble insect of my childish recollection, that spherical 
shape which could best resist those impressions, when I 
perceived that the moon, riding high in the heavens, had 
begun to separate the formless masses of the shadowy 
landscape. Trees isolated, in clumps, and assemblages, 
changed places before my window. The sharp outlines of 
the distant hills came back as in daylight, but little softened 
in the dry, cold, dewless air of a California summer night. 
I was wondering how late it was, and thinking that if the 
horses of the night travelled as slowly as the team before 
us, Faustus might have been spared his agonising prayer, 
when a sudden spasm of activity attacked my driver. A 
succession of whip-snappings, like a pack of Chinese 
crackers, broke from the box before me. The stage 
leaped forward, and when I could pick myself from under 
the seat, a long white building had in some mysterious 
way rolled before my window. It must be Slumgulliont 
As 1 descended from the stage I addressed the driver 


S3 


A Lonely Ride. 

“ I thought you changed horses on the road ? ” 

“ So we did. Two hours ago.” 

“That’s odd. I didn’t notice it.” 

“ Must have been asleep, sir. Hope you had a pleasant 
nap. Bully place for a nice quiet snooze, empty stage, 
sir!” 


( 54 ) 


Cfie 90an of no account. 

His name was Fagg, — David Fagg. He came to CaH- 
fornia in ’52 with us, in the Skyscraper. I don’t think he 
did it in an adventurous way. He probably had no other 
place to go to. When a knot of us young fellows would 
recite what splendid opportunities we resigned to go, and 
how sorry our friends were to have us leave, and show 
daguerreotypes and locks of hair, and talk of Mary and 
Susan, the man of no account used to sit by and listen with 
a pained, mortified expression on his plain face, and say 
nothing. I think he had nothing to say. He had no as- 
sociates, except when we patronised him ; and, in point of 
fact, he was a good deal of sport to us. He was always 
sea-sick whenever we had a capful of wind. He never got 
his sea-legs on either. And I never shall forget how we 
all laughed when Rattler took him the piece of pork on a 

string, and But you know that time-honoured joke. 

And then we had such a splendid lark with him. Miss 
Fanny Twinkler couldn’t bear the sight of him, and we 
used to make Fagg think that she had taken a fancy to him, 
and sent him little delicacies and books from the cabin. 
You ought to have witnessed the rich scene that took place 
when he came up, stammering and very sick, to thank her ! 
Didn’t she flash up grandly, and beautifully, and scornfully ? 
So like “Medora,” Rattler said, — Rattler knew Byron by 
heart, — and wasn’t old Fagg awfully cut up? But he got 


The Man of no Account, 55 

over it, and when Rattler fell sick at Valparaiso, old Fagg 
used to nurse him. You see he was a good sort of fellow, 
but he lacked manliness and spirit. 

He had absolutely no idea of poetry. IVe seen him sit 
stolidly by, mending his old clothes, when Rattler delivered 
that stirring apostrophe of Byron’s to the ocean. He asked 
Rattler once, quite seriously, if he thought Byron was ever 
sea-sick. I don’t remember Rattler’s reply, but I know we 
all laughed very much, and I have no doubt it was some- 
thing good, for Rattler was smart. 

When the Skyscraper arrived at San Francisco we had 
a grand “feed.” We agreed to meet every year and per- 
petuate the occasion. Of course we didn’t invite Fagg. 
Fagg was a steerage passenger, and it was necessary, you 
see, now we were ashore, to exercise a little discretion. 
But Old Fagg, as we called him, — he was only about twenty- 
five years old, by the way, — was the source of immense 
amusement to us that day. It appeared that he had con- 
ceived the idea that he could walk to Sacramento, and 
actually started off afoot. We had a good time, and shook 
hands with one another all around, and so parted. Ah, 
me ! only eight years ago, and yet some of those hands, 
then clasped in amity, have been clenched at each other, 
or have dipped furtively in one another’s pockets. I know 
that we didn’t dine together the next year, because young 
Barker swore he wouldn’t put his feet under the same 
mahogany with such a very contemptible scoundrel as that 
Mixer \ and Nibbles, who borrowed money at Valparaiso of 
young Stubbs, who was then a waiter in a restaurant, didn’t 
like to meet such people. 

When I bought a number of shares in the Coyote Tunnel 

Mugginsville, in ’54, I thought I’d take a run up there 
and see it I stopped at the Empire Hotel, and after 
dinner I got a horse and rode round the town and out to 


56 The Man of no Account. 

the claim. One of those individuals whom newspaper cor- 
respondents call “ our intelligent informant,” and to whom 
in all small communities the right of answering questions is 
tacitly yielded, was quietly pointed out to me. Habit had 
enabled him to work and talk at the same time, and he 
never pretermitted either. He gave me a history of the 
claim, and added : “ You see, stranger (he addressed the 
bank before him), gold is sure to come outer that theer 
claim (he put in a comma with his pick), but the old pro- 
pri-e-tor (he wriggled out the word and the point of his 
pick) warn’t of much account (a long stroke of the pick for 
a period). He was green, and let the boys about here 
jump him,” — and the rest of his sentence was confided to 
his hat, which he had removed to wipe his manly brow with 
his red bandana. 

I asked him who was the original proprietor. 

“ His name war Fagg.” 

I went to see him. He looked a little older and plainer. 
He had worked hard, he said, and was getting on “so-so.” 
I took quite a liking to him and patronised him to some 
extent Whether I did so because I was beginning to have 
a distrust for such fellows as Rattler and Mixer is not 
necessary for me to state. 

You remember how the Coyote Tunnel went in, and 
how awfully we shareholders were done 1 Well, the next 
thing I heard was that Rattler, who was one of the heaviest 
shareholders, was up at Mugginsville keeping bar for the 
proprietor of the Mugginsville Hotel, and that Old Fagg had 
struck it rich, and didn’t know what to do with his money. 
All this was told me by Mixer, who had been there settling 
up matters, and likewise that Fagg was sweet upon the 
daughter of the proprietor of the aforesaid hotel. And so 
by hearsay and letter I eventually gathered that old Robins^ 
the hotel man, was trying to get up a match between Nellie 


The Man of no Account. 57 

Robins and Fagg. Nellie was a pretty, plump, and foolish 
little thing, and would do just as her father wished. I 
thought it would be a good thing for Fagg if he should 
marry and settle down ; that as a married man he might 
be of some account. So I ran up to Mugginsville one day 
tc look after things. 

It did me an immense deal of good to make Rattler mix 
my drinks for me, — Rattler ! the gay, brilliant, and un- 
conquerable Rattler, who had tried to snub me two years 
ago ! I talked to him about Old Fagg and Nellie, particu- 
larly as I thought the subject was distasteful. He never 
liked Fagg, and he was sure, he said, that Nellie didn’t. 
Did Nellie like anybody else ? He turned round to the 
mirror behind the bar and brushed up his hair. I under- 
stood the conceited wretch. I thought I’d put Fagg on 
his guard, and get him to hurry up matters. I had a long 
talk with him. You could see by the way the poor fellow 
acted that he was badly stuck. He sighed, and promised 
to pluck up courage to hurry matters to a crisis. Nellie 
was a good girl, and I think had a sort of quiet respect for 
Old Fagg’s unobtrusiveness. But her fancy was already 
taken captive by Rattler’s superficial qualities, which were 
obvious and pleasing. I don’t think Nellie was any worse 
than you or I. We are more apt to take acquaintances at 
their apparent value than their intrinsic worth. It’s less 
trouble, and, except when we want to trust them, quite as 
convenient. The difficulty with women is that their feelings 
are apt to get interested sooner than ours, and then, you 
know, reasoning is out of the question. This is what Old 
Fagg would have known had he been of any account. But 
he wasn’t. So much the worse for him. 

It was a few months afterward, and I was sitting in my 
Dffice when in walked Old Fagg. I was surprised to sec 
him down, but we talked over the current topics in that 


58 The Man oj no Account. 

mechanical manner of people who know that they have 
something else to say, but are obliged to get at it in that 
formal way. After an interval, Fagg in his natural manner 
said — 

“ I’m going home ! ” 

“ Going home ? ” 

“Yes, — that is, I think I’ll take a trip to the Atlantic 
States. I came to see you, as you know I have some little 
property, and I have executed a power of attorney for you 
to manage my affairs. I have some papers I’d like to 
leave with you. Will you take charge of them ? ” 

“ Yes,” I said. “ But what of Nellie ? ” 

His face fell. He tried to smile, and the combination 
resulted in one of the most startling and grotesque effects 
I ever beheld. At length he said — 

“I shall not marry Nellie, — that is,” — he seemed to 
apologise internally for the positive form of expression, — 
“ I think that I had better not.” 

“David Fagg,” I said with sudden severity, “you’re of 
no account ! ” 

To my astonishment, his face brightened. “Yes,” said 
he, “ that’s it ! — I’m of no account ! But I always knew it. 
You see, I thought Rattler loved that girl as well as I did, 
and I knew she liked him better than she did me, and 
would be happier, I dare say, with him. But then I knew 
that old Robins would have preferred me to him, as I was 
better off, — and the girl would do as he said, — and, you 
see, I thought I was kinder in the way, — and so I left 
But,” he continued, as I was about to interrupt him, “ for 
fear the old man might object to Rattler, I’ve lent him 
enough to set him up in business for himself in Dogtown. 
A pushing, active, brilliant fellow, you know, like Rattler 
can get along, and will soon be in his old position again,— 


The Man of no Account, 59 

and you needn’t be hard on him, you know, if he doesn’t 
Good-bye.” 

I was too much disgusted with his treatment of that 
Rattler to be at all amiable, but as his business was pro- 
fitable, I promised to attend to it, and he left A few weeks 
passed. The return steamer arrived, and a terrible incident 
occupied the papers for days afterward. People in all parts 
of the State conned eagerly the details of an awful ship- 
wreck, and those who had friends aboard went away by 
themselves, and read the long list of the lost under their 
breath. I read of the gifted, the gallant, the noble, and 
loved ones who had perished, and among them I think I 
was the first to read the name of David Fag^ For the 
man of no account ” had “ gone home 1 ” 


( 6o ) 


JBotes: 65 JTIoot anD J^icIO. 

PART I. — IN THE FIELD. 

It was near the close of an October day that I began to be 
disagreeably conscious of the Sacramento Valley. I had 
been riding since sunrise, and my course through the 
depressing monotony of the long level landscape affected me 
more like a dull dyspeptic dream than a business journey, 
performed under that sincerest of natural phenomena, — a 
California sky. The recurring stretches of brown and 
baked fields, the gaping fissures in the dusty trail, the hard 
outline of the distant hills, and the herds of slowly moving 
cattle, seemed like features of some glittering stereoscopic 
picture that never changed. Active exercise might have 
removed this feeling, but my horse by some subtle instinct 
had long since given up all ambitious effort, and had lapsed 
into a dogged trot. 

It was autumn, but not the season suggested to the 
Atlantic reader under that title. The sharply defined 
boundaries of the wet and dry seasons were prefigured in 
the clear outlines of the distant hills. In the dry atmoS' 
phere the decay of vegetation .was too rapid for the 
slow hectic which overtakes an Eastern landscape, or else 
Nature was too practical for such thin disguises. She merely 
turned the Hippocratic face to the spectator, with the old 
diagnosis of death in her sharp, contracted features. 


Notes by Flood and Field, 6 1 

In the contemplation of such a prospect there was little to 
excite any but a morbid fancy. There were no clouds in 
the flinty blue heavens, and the setting of the sun was 
accompanied with as little ostentation as was consistent 
with the dryly practical atmosphere. Darkness soon fol- 
lowed, with a rising wind, which increased as the shadows 
deepened on the plain. The fringe of alder by the water- 
course began to loom up as I urged my horse forward. A 
half-hour’s active spurring brought me to a corral^ and a 
little beyond a house, so low and broad, it seemed at first 
sight to be half buried in the earth. 

My second impression was that it had grown out of the 
soil, like some monstrous vegetable, its dreary proportions 
were so in keeping with the vast prospect. There were no 
recesses along its roughly boarded walls for vagrant and 
unprofitable shadows to lurk in the daily sunshina No 
projection for the wind by night to grow musical over, to 
wail, whistle, or whisper to ; only a long wooden shelf con- 
taining a chilly-looking tin basin and a bar of soap. Its 
uncurtained windows were red with the sinking sun, as 
though bloodshot and inflamed from a too long unlided 
existence. The tracks of cattle led to its front door, firmly 
closed against the rattling wind. 

To avoid being confounded with this familiar element, I 
walked to the rear of the house, which was connected with 
a smaller building by a slight platform. A grizzled, hard- 
faced old man was standing there, and met my salutation 
with a look of inquiry, and, without speaking, led the way 
to the principal room. As I entered, four young men who 
were reclining by the fire slightly altered their attitudes of 
perfect repose, but beyond that betrayed neither curiosity 
nor interest A hound started from a dark corner with a 
growl, but was immediately kicked by the old man into 
obscurity and silenced again. I can’t tell why, but I iiv 


62 Notes by Flood and Field. 

Btantly received the impression that for a long time th^ 
group by the fire had not uttered a word or moved a 
muscle. Taking a seat, I briefly stated my business. 

Was a United States surveyor. Had come on account 
of the Espiritu Santo rancho. Wanted to correct the ex- 
terior boundaries of township lines, so as to connect with 
the near exteriors of private grants. There had been some 
intervention to the old survey by a Mr. Try an, who had 
pre-empted adjacent — “ Settled land warrants,” interrupted 
the old man. “ Ah, yes ! land warrants, — and then this 
was Mr. Tryan ? ” 

I had spoken mechanically, for I was preoccupied in 
connecting other public lines with private surveys, as I 
looked in his face. It was certainly a hard face, and re- 
minded me of the singular effect of that mining opera- 
tion known as “ ground sluicing ; ” the harder lines of under- 
lying character were exposed, and what were once plastic 
curves and soft outlines were obliterated by some power- 
ful agency. 

There was a dryness in his voice not unlike the prevailing 
atmosphere of the valley, as he launched into an ex parte 
statement of the contest, with a fluency which, like the wind 
without, showed frequent and unrestrained expression. He 
told me — what I had already learned — that the boundary 
line of the old Spanish grant was a creek, described in the 
loose phraseology of the deseno as beginning in the valda or 
skirt of the hill, its precise location long the subject of 
litigation. I listened and answered with little interest, for 
my mind was still distracted by the wind which swept 
violently by the house, as well as by his odd face, which 
was again reflected in the resemblance that the silent group 
by the fire bore toward him. He was still talking, and the 
wind was yet blowing, when my confused attention wai 
aroused by a remark addressed to the recumbent figurea. 


Notes by Flood and Field, 63 

“Now, then, which on ye’ll see the stranger up the creek 
to Altascar’s to-morrow ? ” 

There was a general movement of opposition in the group 
but no decided answer. 

** Kin you go, Kerg ? ” 

Who’s to look up stock in Strarberry per-ar-ie ? ” 

This seemed to imply a negative, and the old man turned 
to another hopeful, who was pulling the fur from a mangy 
bear-skin on which he was lying, with an expression as 
though it were somebody’s hair. 

“ Well, Tom, wot’s to hinder you from goin’ ? ” 

“ Mam’s goin’ to Brown’s store at sun-up, and I s’pose 
I’ve got to pack her and the baby again.” 

I think the expression of scorn this unfortunate youth 
exhibited for the filial duty into which he had been evidently 
beguiled was one of the finest things I had ever seen. 

“Wise?” 

Wise deigned no verbal reply, but figuratively thrust a 
worn and patched boot into the discourse. The old man 
flushed quickly. 

“ I told ye to get Brown to give you a pair the last time 
you war down the river.” 

“Said he wouldn’t without an order. Said it was like 
pulling gum-teeth to get the money from you even then.” 

There was a grim smile at this local hit at the old man’s 
parsimony, and Wise, who was clearly the privileged wit of 
the family, sank back in honourable retirement. 

“ Well, Joe, ef your boots are new, and you aren’t pestered 
with wimmin and children, p’r’aps you’ll go,” said Tryan, 
with a nervous twitching, intended for a smile, about 9 
mouth not remarkable mirthful 

Tom lifted a pair of bushy eyebrows and said shortly^ 

“ Got no saddle.” 

•Wots gone of your saddle?” 


64 Notes by Flood and Field. 

** Kerg, there ! ” indicating his brother with a look suck 
as Cain might have worn at the sacrifice. 

** You lie !” returned Kerg, cheerfully. 

Tryan sprang to his feet, seizing the chair, flourishing it 
around his head and gazing furiously in the hard young faces 
which fearlessly met his own. But it was only for a moment ; 
his arm soon dropped by his side, and a look of hopeless 
fatality crossed his face. He allowed me to take the chair 
from his hand, and I was trying to pacify him by the 
assurance that I required no guide, when the irrepressible 
Wise again lifted his voice — 

“ Theer’s George cornin’ ! why don’t ye ask him ? He’ll 
go and introduce you to Don Fernandy’s darter, too, ef you 
ain’t pertickler.” 

The laugh which followed this joke, which evidently had 
some domestic allusion (the general tendency of rural 
pleasantry), was followed by a light step on the platform, 
and the young man entered. Seeing a stranger present, he 
stopped and coloured, made a shy salute and coloured again, 
and then, drawing a box from the corner, sat down, his 
hands clasped tightly together and his very handsome bright 
blue eyes turned frankly on mine. 

Perhaps I was in a condition to receive the romantic im- 
pression he made upon me, and I took it upon myself to 
ask his company as guide, and he cheerfully assented. But 
some domestic duty called him presently away. 

The fire gleamed brightly on the hearth, and, no longer 
resisting the prevailing influence, I silently watched the 
spirting flame, listening to the wind which continually shook 
the tenement. Besides the one chair, which had acquired 
a new importance in my eyes, I presently discovered a crazy 
table in one corner, with an inkbottle and pen, the latter 
in that greasy state of decomposition peculiar to country 
taverns and farmhouses. A goodly array of rifles and 


Notes hy Flood and Field, 65 

double-barrelled guns stocked the corner; half a dozen 
saddles and blankets lay near, with a mild flavour of the 
horse about them. Some deer and bear skins completed 
the inventory. As I sat there, with the silent group around 
me, the shadowy gloom within and the dominant wind 
without, I found it difficult to believe I had ever known a 
different existence. My profession had often led me to 
wilder scenes, but rarely among those whose unrestrained 
habits and easy unconsciousness made me feel so lonely 
and uncomfortable. I shrank closer to myself, not without 
grave doubts — which I think occur naturally to people in 
like situations — that this was the general rule of humanity, 
and I was a solitary and somewhat gratuitous excep- 
tion. 

It was a relief when a laconic announcement of supper 
by a weak-eyed girl caused a general movement in the 
family. We w’^alked across the dark platform, which led to 
another low-ceiled room. Its entire length was occupied 
by a table, at the further end of which a weak-eyed woman 
was already taking her repast as she at the same time gave 
nourishment to a weak-eyed* baby. As the formalities of 
introduction had been dispensed with, and as she took no 
notice of me, I was enabled to slip into a seat without 
discomposing or interrupting her. Tryan extemporised a 
grace, and the attention of the family became absorbed in 
bacon, potatoes, and dried apples. 

The meal was a sincere one. Gentle gurglings at the 
upper end of the table often betrayed the presence of 
the “wellspring of pleasure.” The conversation generally 
referred to the labours of the day, and comparing notes as 
to the whereabouts of missing stock. Yet the supper was 
Buch a vast improvement upon the previous intellectual 
feast, that when a chance allusion of mine to the business 
of my visit brought out the elder Tryan, the interest grew 

VOL. II. E 


6jS Notes by Flood and Field. 

quite exciting. I remember he inveighed bitterly againrt 
the system of ranch-holding by the “ Greasers,” as he wat 
pleased to term the native Californians. As the same ideas 
have been sometimes advanced under more pretentious 
circumstances, they may be worthy of record. 

“ Look at ^em holdin’ the finest grazin’ land that ever lay 
outer doors? Whar’s the papers for it? Was it grants? 
Mighty fine grants, — most of ’em made arter the ’Merrikans 
got possession. More fools the ’Merrikans for lettin’ ’em 
hold ’em. Wat paid for ’em? ’Menikan blood and 
.money. 

“Didn’t they oughter have suthin out of their native 
country ? Wot for ? Did they ever improve ? Got a lot 
of yaller-skinned diggers, not so sensible as niggers, to look 
arter stock, and they a sittin’ home and smokin’. With 
their gold and silver candlesticks, and missions, and cruci- 
fixens, priests and graven- idols, and sich? Them sort 
things wurent allowed in Mizzoori.” 

At the mention of improvements I involuntarily lifted my 
eyes, and met the half-laughing, half-embarrassed look of 
George. I'he act did not escape detection, and I had at 
once the satisfaction of seeing that the rest of the family 
had formed an offensive alliance against us. 

“ It was agin Nater and agin God,” added Tryaa “ God 
never intended gold in the rocks to be made into heathen 
candlesticks and crucifixens. That’s why He sent ’Merrikans 
here. Nater never intended such a climate for lazy lopers. 
She never gin six months’ sunshine to be slept and smoked 
away.” 

How long he continued, and with what further illustration^ 
I could not say, for I took an early opportunity to escape 
to the sitting-room. I was soon followed by George, who 
called me to an open door leading to a smaller room, aad 
pointed to a bed. 


Notes by Flood and Field, 67 

“You’d better sleep there to-night,” he said; “you’ll be 
more comfortable, and I’ll call you early.” 

I thanked him, and would have asked him several 
questions which were then troubling me, but he shyly 
slipped to the door and vanished. 

A shadow seemed to fall on the room when he had gone. 
The “ boys ” returned, one by one, and shuffled to their old 
places, A larger log was thrown on the fire, and the huge 
chimney glowed like a furnace, but it did not seem to melt 
or subdue a single line of the hard faces that it lit. In half 
an hour later, the furs which had served as chairs by day 
undertook the nightly office of mattresses, and each received 
its owner’s full-length figure. Mr. Tryan had not returned, 
and I missed George. I sat there, until, wakeful and 
nervous, I saw the fire fall and shadows mount the wall. 
There was no sound but the rushing of the wind and the 
snoring of the sleepers. At last, feeling the place insup- 
portable, I seized my hat, and, opening the door, ran out 
briskly into the night. 

The acceleration of my torpid pulse in the keen fight 
with the wind, whose violence was almost equal to that of 
a tornado, and the familiar faces of the bright stars above 
me, I felt as a blessed relief. I ran not knowing whither 
and when I halted, the square outline of the house was 
lost in the alder bushes. An uninterrupted plain stretched 
before me, like a vast sea beaten flat by the force of the gale. 
As I kept on I noticed a slight elevation toward the horizon, 
and presently my progress was impeded by the ascent of an 
Indian mound. It struck me forcibly as resembling an 
island in the sea. Its height gave me a better view of the 
expanding plain. But even here I found no rest The 
ridiculous interpretation Tryan had given the climate was 
somehow sung in my ears and echoed in my throbbing 
pulse, as, guided by the star, I sought the house again. 


68 Notes by Flood a?id Field. 

But I felt fresher and more natural as I stepped upon 
the platform. The door of the lower building was open, 
and the old man was sitting beside the table, thumbing the 
leaves of a Bible with a look in his face as though he were 
hunting up prophecies against the ‘‘ Greaser.” I turned to 
enter, but my attention was attracted by a blanketed figure 
lying beside the house on the platform. The broad chest 
heaving with healthy slumber, and the open, honest face 
were familiar. It was George, who had given up his bed to 
the stranger among his people. I was about to wake him, 
but he lay so peaceful and quiet, I felt awed and hushed. 
And I went to bed with a pleasant impression of his hand- 
some face and tranquil figure soothing me to sleep. 
#••••• 

I was awakened the next morning from a sense of lulled 
repose and grateful silence by the cheery voice of George, 
who stood beside my bed ostentatiously twirling a “ riata,” 
as if to recall the duties of the day to my sleep-bewildered 
eyes. I looked around me. The wind had been magically 
laid, and the sun shone warmly through the windows. A 
dash of cold water, with an extra chill on from the tin basin, 
helped to brighten me. It was still early, but the family 
had already breakfasted and dispersed, and a waggon wind- 
ing far in the distance showed that the unfortunate Tom 
had already “ packed ” his relatives away. I felt more 
cheerful, — there are few troubles Youth cannot distance 
with the start of a good night’s rest. After a substantial 
breakfast, prepared by George, in a few moments we were 
mounted and dashing down the plain. 

We followed the line of alder that defined the creek, now 
dry and baked with summer’s heat, but which in winter, 
George told me, overflowed its banks. I still retain a vivid 
Impression of that morning’s ride, the far-off mountains, like 
nlhouettes^ against the steel-blue sky, the crisp, dry air, and 


Notes by Flood and Field. 69 

the expanding track before me, animated often by the well- 
knit figure of George Tryan, musical with jingling spurs 
and picturesque with flying “ riata.” He rode a powerful 
native roan, wild-eyed, untiring in stride and unbroken in 
nature. Alas ! the curves of beauty were concealed by 
the cumbrous machillas of the Spanish saddle, which levels 
all equine distinctions. The single rein lay loosely on the 
cruel bit that can gripe, and, if need be, crush the jaw it 
controls. 

Again the illimitable freedom of the valley rises before 
me as we again bear down into sunlit space. Can this 
be “Chu-Chu,” staid and respectable filly of American 
pedigree, — “ Chu-Chu,” forgetful of plank-roads and cobble- 
stones, wild with excitement, twinkling her small white feet 
beneath me ? George laughs out of a cloud of dust, “ Give 
her her head ; don’t you see she likes it ? ” and “ Chu-Chu ” 
seems to like it, and, whether bitten by native tarantula into 
native barbarism or emulous of the roan, “ blood ” asserts 
itself, and in a moment the peaceful servitude of years is 
beaten out in the music of her clattering hoofs. The creek 
widens to a deep gully. We dive into it and up on the 
opposite side, carrying a moving cloud of impalpable 
powder with us. Cattle are scattered over the plain, 
grazing quietly or banded together in vast restless herds. 
George makes a wide, indefinite sweep with the “ riata,” as 
if to include them all in his vaquero’s loop, and says, 
« Ours I” 

“About how many, George?** 

“Don’t know.” 

“ How many ? ” 

“ Well, p’r’aps three thousand head,” says George, 
^fleeting. “ We don’t know, takes five men to look *em up 
tnd keep run.” 

“ What are they worth ? ” 


Jo Notes by Flood and Field, 

“ About thirty d9llars a head/' 

I make a rapid calculation, and look my astonishment 
at the laughing George. Perhaps a recollection of the 
domestic economy of the Tryan household is expressed in 
that look, for George averts his eye and says, apologeti- 
cally — 

“ I’ve tried to get the old man to sell and build, but you 
know he says it ain’t no use to settle down just yet. We 
must keep movin’. In fact, he built the shanty for that 
purpose, lest titles should fall through, and we’d have to get 
up and move stakes farther down.” 

Suddenly his quick eye detects some unusual sight in a 
herd we are passing, and with an exclamation he puts his 
roan into the centre of the mass. I follow, or rather 
“ Chu-Chu ” darts after the roan, and in a few moments we 
are in the midst of apparently inextricable horns and hoofs. 
“Toro !” shouts George, with vaquero enthusiasm, and the 
band opens a way for the swinging “ riata.” I can feel their 
steaming breaths, and their spume is cast on “ Chu-Chu’s ” 
quivering flank. 

Wild, devilish-looking beasts are they; not such shapes 
as Jove might have chosen to woo a goddess, nor such as 
peacefully range the downs of Devon, but lean and hungry 
Cassius-like bovines, economically got up to meet the 
exigencies of a six-months’ rainless climate, and accustomed 
to wrestle with the distracting wind and the blinding 
dust. 

“ That’s not our brand,” says George ; “ they’re strange 
stock,” and he points to what my scientific eye recognises 
AS the astrological sign of Venus deeply seared in the brown 
flanks of the bull he is chasing. But the herd are closing 
round us with low mutterings, and George has again re- 
course to the authoritative “Toro,” and with swinging 
“riata” divides the “bossy bucklers” on either side. 


Notes by Flood and Field. 7 1 

When we are free, and breathing somewhat more easily, I 
venture to ask George if they ever attack any one. 

“Never horsemen, — sometimes footmen. Not through 
rage, you know, but curiosity. They think a man and his 
horse are one, and if they meet a chap afoot, they run him 
down and trample him under hoof, in the pursuit of know- 
ledge. But,” adds George, “ here’s the lower bench of the 
foothills, and here’s Altascar’s corral, and that white build- 
ing you see yonder is the casa. ” 

A whitewashed wall enclosed a court containing another 
adobe building, baked with the solar beams of many 
summers. Leaving our horses in the charge of a few peons 
in the courtyard, who were basking lazily in the sun, we 
entered a low doorway, where a deep shadow and an agree- 
able coolness fell upon us, as sudden and grateful as a 
plunge in cool water, from its contrast with the external 
glare and heat. In the centre of a low-ceiled apartment sat 
an old man with a black silk handkerchief tied about his 
head, the few grey hairs that escaped from its folds reliev- 
ing his gamboge-coloured face. The odour of cigarritos was 
as incense added to the cathedral gloom of the building. 

As Senor Altascar rose with well-bred gravity to receive 
us, George advanced with such a heightened colour, and 
such a blending of tenderness and respect in his manner, 
that I was touched tCPthe heart by so much devotion in the 
careless youth. In fact, my eyes were still dazzled by the 
effect of the outer sunshine, and at first I did not see the 
white teeth and black eyes of Pepita, who slipped into the 
corridor as we entered. 

It was no pleasant matter to disclose particulars of 
business which would deprive the old Senor of the greater 
part of that land we had just ridden over, and I did it with 
great embarrassment. But he listened calmly, — not a muscle 
af his dark face stirring, — and the smoke curling placidly 


72 Notes by Flood and Field. 

from his lips showed his regular respiration. When I had 
finished, he offered quietly to accompany us to the line of 
demarcation. George had meanwhile disappeared, but a 
suspicious conversation in broken Spanish and English 
in the corridor, betrayed his vicinity. When he returned 
again, a little absent-minded, the old man, by far the coolest 
and most self-possessed of the party, extinguished his 
black silk cap beneath that stiff, uncomely sombrero which 
all native Californians affect. A serapa thrown over his 
shoulders hinted that he was waiting. Horses are always 
ready saddled in Spanish ranchos, and in half an hour from 
the time of our arrival we were again “ loping ” in the star- 
ing sunlight. 

But not as cheerfully as before. George and myself were.> 
weighed down by restraint, and Altascar was gravely quiey 
To break the silence, and by way of a consolatory essay, I' 
hinted to him that there might be further intervention or 
appeal, but the proffered oil and wine were returned with a 
careless shrug of the shoulders and a sententious, “ Qiie 
bueno 1 Your courts are always just.” 

The Indian mound of the previous night’s discovery was 
a bearing monument of the new line, and there we halted. 
We were surprised to find the old man Tryan waiting us. 
For the first time during our interview the old Spaniard 
seemed moved and the blood rose in his yellow cheek. 

I was anxious to close the scene, and pointed out the corner 
boundaries as clearly as my recollection served. 

“ The deputies will be here to-morrow to run the lines 
from this initial point, and there will be no further trouble, 

I believe, gentlemen.” 

Senor Altascar had dismounted and was gathering a few 
tufts of dried grass in his hands. George and I exchanged 
glances. He presently arose from his stooping posture, 
and advancing to within a few paces of Joseph Tryan, said 
♦n a voice broken with passion — 


Notes by Flood and Field, 73 

•‘And I, Fernando Jesus Maria Altascar, put you ill 
possession of my land in the fashion of my country.” 

He threw a sod to each of the cardinal points. 

** I don’t know your courts, your judges, or your corre» 
^dores. Take the llano I — and take this with it. May the i 
drought sei^e your cattle till their tongues hang down as f 
long as those of your lying lawyers ! May it be the curse/ 
and torment of your old age, as you and yours have made it 
of mine ! ” 

We stepped between the principal actors in this scene, 
which only the passion of Altascar made tragical, but 
Tryan, with a humility but ill concealing his triumph, inter- 
rupted — 

Let him curse on. He’ll find ’em coming home to him 
sooner than the cattle he has lost through his sloth and pride. 
The Lord is on the side of the just, as well as agin all 
slanderers and revilers.” 

Altascar but half guessed the meaning of the Missourian, 
yet sufficiently to drive from his mind all but the extravagant 
power of his native invective. 

“ Stealer of the Sacrament ! Open not ! — open not, I 
say, your lying, Judas lips to me I Ah ! half-breed, with 
the soul of a coyote ! — Car-r-r-ramba ! ” 

With his passion reverberating among the consonants like 
distant thunder, he laid his hand upon the mane of his 
horse as though it had been the grey locks of his adversary, 
swung himself into the saddle and galloped away. 

George turned to me. 

“ Will you go back with us to-night ? ’’ 

1 thought of the cheerless walls, the silent figures by the 
fire, and the roaring wind, and hesitated. 

“Well, then, good-bye.” 

“Good-bye, George.” 

Another wring of the hands and we parted. I had not 


74 Notes by Flood and Field, 

ridden far, when I turned and looked back. The wind 
had risen early that afternoon, and was already sweeping 
across the plaia A cloud of dust travelled before it, and 
a picturesque figure occasionly emerging therefrom was my 
last indistinct impression of George Tryan. 


PART II. — IN THE FLOOD. 

Three months after the survey of the Espiritu Santo 
rancho, I was again in the valley of the Sacramento. But 
a general and terrible visitation had erased the memory of 
that event as completely as I supposed it had obliterated 
the boundary monuments I had planted. The great flood 
of 1861-62 was at its height, when, obeying some indefinite 
yearning, I took my carpet-bag and embarked for the inun- 
dated valley. 

There was nothing to be seen from the bright cabin 
windows of the Golden City but night deepening over the 
water. The only sound was the pattering rain, and that 
had grown monotonous for the past two weeks, and did 
not disturb the national gravity of my countrymen as they 
silently sat around the cabin stove. Some on errands of 
relief to friends and relatives wore anxious faces, and con- 
versed soberly on the one absorbing topic. Others like 
myself, attracted by curiosity, listened eagerly to newer 
details. But, with that human disposition to seize upon any 
circumstance that might give chance event the exaggerated 
importance of instinct, I was half conscious of something 
more than curiosity as an impelling motive. 

The dripping of rain, the low gurgle of water, and a leaden 
sky greeted us the next morning as we lay beside the half 
submerged levee of Sacramento. Here, however, the novelty 
of boats to convey us to the hotels was an appeal that was 


Notes by Flood and Field. 75 

Inesistible. I resigned myself to a dripping rnbber-cased 
mariner called “Joe,” and wrapping myself in a shining 
cloak of the like material, about as suggestive of warmth as 
court-plaster might have been, took my seat in the stem- 
sheets of his boat. It was no slight inward struggle to part 
from the steamer, that to most of the passengers was the 
only visible connecting link between us and the dry and 
habitable earth, but we pulled away and entered the city, 
stemming a rapid current as we shot the levee. 

We glided up the long level of K Street, — once a cheerful 
busy thoroughfare, now distressing in its silent desolation. 
The turbid water, which seemed to meet the horizon edge 
before us, flowed at right angles in sluggish rivers through 
the streets. Nature had revenged herself on the local taste 
by disarraying the regular rectangles by huddling houses on 
street corners, where they presented abrupt gables to the 
current, or by capsizing them in compact ruia Crafts of 
all kinds were gliding in and out of low-arched doorways. 
The water was over the top of the fences surrounding well- 
kept gardens, in the first storeys of hotels and private 
dwellings, trailing its slime on velvet carpets as well as 
roughly boarded floors. And a' silence quite as suggestive 
as the visible desolation was in the voiceless streets that no 
longer echoed to carriage-wheel or footfall. The low ripple 
of water, the occasional splash of oars, or the warning cry 
of boatmen were the few signs of life and habitation. 

With such scenes before my eyes and such sounds in my 
ears, as I lie lazily in the boat, is mingled the song of my 
gondolier, who sings to the music of his oars. It is not quite 
as romantic as his brother of the Lido might improvise, but 
my Yankee “ Giuseppe ” has the advantage of earnestness 
and energy, and gives a graphic description of the terrors 
of the past week and of -ioble deeds of self-sacrifice and 
devotion, occasionally pointing out a balcony from which 


76 Notes by Flood and Field. 

some California Bianca or Laura had been snatched, half- 
clothed and famished. Giuseppe is otherwise peculiar, and 
refuses the proffered fare, for — am I not a citizen of San 
Francisco, which was first to respond to the suffering cry 
of Sacramento ? and is not he, Giuseppe, a member of the 
Howard Society ? No, Giuseppe is poor, but cannot take 
my money. Still, if I must spend it, there is the Howard 
Society, and the women and children without food and 
clothing at the Agricultural Hall. 

I thank the generous gondolier, and we go to the Hall, — 
a dismal, bleak place, ghastly with the memories of last 
year’s opulence and plenty, and here Giuseppe’s fare is 
swelled by the stranger’s mite. But here Giuseppe tells me 
of the “ Relief Boat ” which leaves for the flooded district 
in the interior, and here, profiting by the lesson he has 
taught me, I make the resolve to turn my curiosity to the 
account of others, and am accepted of those who go forth 
to succour and help the afflicted. Giuseppe takes charge 
of my carpet-bag, and does not part from me until I stand 
on the slippery deck of “ Relief Boat No. 3.” 

An hour later I am in the pilot-house, looking down 
upon what was once the cMnnel of a peaceful river. But its 
banks are only defined by tossing tufts of willow washed by 
the long swell that breaks over a vast inland sea. Stretches 
of “ tule ” land fertilised by its once regular channel, and 
dotted by flourishing ranchos, are now cleanly erased. 
The cultivated profile of the old landscape had faded. 
Dotted lines in symmetrical perspective mark orchards that 
are buried and chilled in the turbid flood. The roofs of a 
few farmhouses are visible, and here and there the smoke 
curling from chimneys of half submerged tenements shows 
an undaunted life within. Cattle and sheep are gathered 
on Indian mounds waiting the fate of their companions, 
erhose carcases drift by us or swing in eddies with tb« 


Notes by Flood and Field, 77 

wrecks of barns and outhouses. Waggons are stranded 
everywhere where the tide could carry them. As I wipe 
the moistened glass, I see nothing but water, pattering on 
the deck from the lowering clouds,- dashing against the 
window, dripping from the willows, hissing by the wheels, 
everywhere washing, coiling, sapping, hurrying in rapids, 
or swelling at last into deeper and vaster lakes, awful in 
their suggestive quiet and concealment. 

As day fades into night the monotony of this strange 
prospect grows oppressive. I seek the engine-room, and 
in the company of some of the few half- drowned sufferers 
we have already picked up from temporary rafts, .1 forget 
the general aspect of desolation in their individual misery. 
Later we meet the San Francisco packet, and transfer a 
number of our passengers. From them we learn how 
inward-bound vessels report to having struck the well-defined 
channel of the Sacramento fifty miles beyond the bar. 
There is a voluntary contribution taken among the generous 
travellers for the use of our afflicted, and we part company 
with a hearty “ God speed ” on either side. But our signal 
lights are not far distant before a familiar sound comes 
back to us, — an indomitable Yankee cheer, — which scatters 
the gloom. 

Our course is altered, and we are steaming over the 
obliterated banks far in the interior. Once or twice black 
objects loom up near us, — the wrecks of houses floating by. 
There is a slight rift in the sky towards the north, and a 
few bearing stars to guide us over the waste. As we pene- 
trate into shallower water, it is deemed advisable to divide 
our party into smaller boats, and diverge over the hub- 
tneiged prairie. I borrow a peacoat of one of the crew, 
Und in that practical disguise am doubtfully permitted to 
pass into one of the boats. We give way northerly. It is 
quite dark yet, although the rift of cloud has widened 


Notes by Flood and Field. 

It must have been about three o’clock, and we were l5dng 
upon our oars in an eddy formed by a clump of cottonwood, 
and the light of the steamer is a solitary bright star in the 
distance, when the silence is broken by the “ bow oar 

“ Light ahead.” 

All eyes are turned in that direction. In a few seconds 
a twinkling light appears, shines steadily, and again disap- 
pears, as if by the shifting position of some black object 
apparently drifting close upon us. 

“ Stern, all ! — a steamer ! ” 

“ Hold hard, there ! Steamer be d — d ! ” is the reply 
of the coxswain. “ It’s a house, and a big one too.” 

It is a big one, looming in the starlight like a huge frag- 
ment of the darkness. The light comes from a single 
candle which shines through a window as the great shape 
swings by. Some recollection is drifting back to me with 
it, as I listen with beating heart. 

“ There’s some one in it, by heavens ! Give way, boys, 
— lay her alongside. Handsomely, now ! The door’s 
fastened ; try the window ; no ! here’s another ! ” 

In another moment we are trampling in the water, which 
washes the floor to the ^pth of several inches. It is a 
large room, at the farther end of which an old man is sitting 
wrapped in a blanket, holding a candle in one ’hand, and 
apparently absorbed in the book he holds with the other. 
I spring toward him with an exclamation — 

“ Joseph Try an ! ” 

He does not move. We gather closer to him, and I lay 
my hand gently on his shoulder, and say — 

“ Look up, old man, look up ! Your w'fe and children, 
where are they ? The boys, — George ! Are they here ? 
are they safe ? ” 

He raises his head slowly, and turns his eyes to mine^ 
and we involuntarily recoil before his look. It is a calm 


Notes by Flood and Field. 79 

and quiet glance, free from fear, anger, or pain; but it 
somehow sends the blood curdling through our veins. He 
bowed his head over his book again, taking no further 
notice of us. The men look at me compassionately and 
hold their peace. I make one more effort — 

‘‘Joseph Tryan, don’t you know me — the surveyor who 
surveyed your ranch, — the Espiritu Santo ? Look up, old 
man!” 

He shuddered and wrapped himself closer in his blanket. 
Presently he repeated to himself, “ The surveyor who sur- 
veyed your ranch, Espiritu Santo,” over and over again, 
as though it were a lesson he was trying to fix in his 
memory. 

I was turning sadly to the boatmen, when he suddenly 
caught me fearfully by the hand, and said — 

“Hush!” 

We were silent. 

“ Listen ! ” He puts his arm around my neck, and 
whispers in my ear, “ I’m a moving off I ” 

“ Moving off? ” 

“ Hush ! Don’t speak so loud. Moving off! Ah ! wot’s 
that ? Don’t you hear ? — there ! — ^listen ! ” 

We listen, and hear the water gurgle and click beneath 
the floor. 

“ It’s them wot he sent ! — Old Altascar sent They’ve 
been here all night. I heard ’em first in the creek, when 
they came to tell the old man to move farther off. They 
came nearer and nearer. They whispered under the door, 
and I saw their eyes on the step, — their cruel, hard eyes. 
Ah ! why don’t they quit ? ” 

I tell the men to search the room and see if they can 
find any farther traces of the family, while Tryan resumes 
his old attitude. It is so much like the figure I remember 
•n the breezy night, that a superstitious feeling is fast over- 


8o Notes by Flood and Field, 

coming me. When they have returned, I tell them briefly 
what I know of him, and the old man murmurs again — 

“ Why don’t they quit, then ? They have the stock, — all 
gone — gone, — gone for the hides and hoofs,” and he groans 
bitterly. 

“There are other boats below us. The shanty cannot 
have drifted far, and perhaps the family are safe by this 
time,” says the coxswain, hopefully. 

“We lift the old man up, for he is quite helpless, *and 
carry him to the boat. He is still grasping the Bible in his 
right hand, though its strengthening grace is blank to his 
vacant eye, and he cowers in the stern as we pull slowly 
to the steamer, while a pale gleam in the sky shows the 
coming day. 

I was weary with excitement, and when we reached the 
steamer, and I had seen Joseph Tryan comfortably bestowed, 
I wrapped myself in a blanket near the boiler and presently 
fell asleep. But even then the figure of the old man often 
started before me, and a sense of uneasiness about George 
made a strong undercurrent to my drifting dreams. I was 
awakened at about eight o’clock in the morning by the 
engineer, who told me one of the old man’s sons had been 
picked up and was now on board. 

“Is it George Tryan?” I ask quickly. 

“ Don’t know ; but he’s a sweet one, whoever he is,” 
adds the engineer, with a smile at some luscious remem- 
brance. “ You’ll find him for’ard.” 

I hurry to the bow of the boat, and find not George, but 
the irrepressible Wise, sitting on a coil of rope, a little 
dirtier and rather more dilapidated than I can remember 
having seen him. 

He is examining, with apparent admiration, some rough, 
dry clothes that have been put out for his disposal. I can- 
not help thinking that circumstances have somewhat exalted 


Notes by Flood and Field. 8 1 

his usual cheerfulness. He puts me at my ease by at once 
addressing me — 

“These are high old times, ain’t they? I say, what do 
you reckon's become o’ them thar bound’ry moniments you 
stuck ? Ah ! ” 

The pause which succeeds this outburst is the effect of a 
spasm of admiration at a pair of high boots, which, by great 
exertion, he has at last pulled on his feet. 

“ So you’ve picked up the ole man in the shanty, clean 
crazy ? He must have been soft to have stuck there instead 
o’ leavin’ with the old woman. Didn’t know me from 
Adam ; took me for George ! ” 

At this affecting instance of paternal forgetfulness. Wise 
was evidently divided between amusement and chagrin. I 
took advantage of the contending emotions to ask about 
George. 

“ Don’t know whar he is ! If he’d tended stock instead 
of running about the prairie, packin’ off wimmin and 
children, he might have saved suthin. He lost every hoof 
and hide. I’ll bet a cookey ! Say you,” to a passing boat- 
man, “when are you goin’ to give us some grub? I’m 
hungry ’nough to skin and eat a boss. Reckon I’ll turn 
‘butcher when things is dried up, and save hides, horns, 
and taller.” 

I could not but admire this indomitable energy, which 
under softer climatic influences might have borne such 
goodly fruit. 

“ Have you any idea what you’ll do. Wise?” I ask. 

“ Thar ain’t much to do now,” says the practical young 
roan. “ I’ll have to lay over a spell, I reckon, till things 
comes straight. The land ain’t worth much now, and won’t 
be, I dessay, for some time. Wonder whar the ole man'll 
drive stakes next.” 

** I meant as to your father and George, Wise. ” 

VOL. II. F 


82 Notes by Flood and Field, 

“ Oh, the ole man and I’ll go on to ‘ Miles’s,’ whar Tom 
packed the old woman and babies last week, George’U 
turn up somewhar atween this and Altascar’s^ ef he ain’t 
thar now.” 

I ask how the Altascars have suffered. 

“ Well, I reckon he ain’t lost much in stock. I shouldn’t 
wonder if George helped him drive ’em up the foot-hills. 
And his ‘ casa ’ ’s built too high. Oh, thar ain’t any water 
thar, you bet. Ah ! ’’ says Wise, with reflective admiration, 
“ those Greasers ain’t the darned fools people thinks ’em. 
I’ll bet thar ain’t one swamped out in all ’er Californy.” 
But the appearance of “ grub,” cut this rhapsody short 

“I shall keep on a little farther,” I say, “and try to find 
George.” 

Wise stared a moment at this eccentricity until a new 
light dawned upon him. 

“ I don’t think you’ll save much. What’s the percentage, 
— workin’ on shares, eh ? ” 

I answer that I am only curious, which I feel lessens his 
opinion of me, and with a sadder feeling than his assurance 
of George’s safety might warrant, I walked away. 

From others whom we picked up from time to time we 
heard of George’s self-sacrificing devotion, with the praises, 
of the many he had helped and rescued. But I did not 
feel disposed to return until I had seen him, and soon 
prepared myself to take a boat to the lower “ valda ” of the 
foot-hills, and visit Altascar. I soon perfected my arrange- 
ments, bade farewell to Wise, and took a last look at the 
old man, who was sitting by the furnace fires quite passive 
and composed. Then our boat-head swung round, pulled 
by sturdy and willing hands. 

It was again raining, and a disagreeable wind had risen. 
C^r course lay nearly west, and we soon knew by the strong 
curient that we were in the creek of the Espiritu Santo 


Notes by Flood and Field, 83 

From time to time the wrecks of barns were seen, and 
we passed many half-submerged willows hung with fanning 
implements. 

We emerge at last into a broad silent sea. It is the 
“llano de Espfritu Santo.” As the wind whistles by me, 
piling the shallower fresh water into mimic waves, I go 
back, in fancy, to the long ride of October over that bound- 
less plain, and recall the sharp outlines of the distant hills 
which are now lost in the lowering clouds. The men are 
rowing silently, and I find my mind, released from its 
tension, growing benumbed and depressed as then. The 
water, too, is getting more shallow as we leave the banks 
of the creek, and with my hand dipped listlessly over the 
thwarts, I detect the tops of chimisal, which shows the 
tide to have somewhat fallen. There is a black mound, 
bearing to the north of the line of alder, making an 
adverse current, which, as we sweep to the right to avoid, 
I recognise. We pull close alongside, and I call to the 
men to stop. 

There was a stake driven near its summit with the initials, 
“ L. E. S. I.” Tied half-way down was a curiously worked 
“riata.” It was George’s. It had been cut with some 
sharp instrument, and the loose gravelly soil of the mound 
was deeply dented with horse’s hoofs. The stake was 
covered with horse-hairs. It was a record, but no clew. 

The wind had grown more violent, as we still fought our 
way forward, resting and rowing by turns, and oftener 
“poling” the shallower surface, but the old “valda,” or 
bench, is still distant. My recollection of the old survey 
enables me to guess the relative position of the meanderings 
of the creek, and an occasional simple professional experi- 
ment to determine the distance gives my crew the fullest 
faith in my ability. Night overtakes us in our impeded 
progress. Our condition looks more dangerous than It 


84 Notes by Flood and Field, 

really is, but I urge the men, many of whom are still new 
in this mode of navigation, to greater exertion by assurance 
of perfect safety and speedy relief ahead. We go on in this 
way until about eight o’clock, and ground by the willows. 
We have a muddy walk for a few hundred yards before we 
strike a dry trail, and simultaneously the white walls of 
Altascar’s appear like a snow-bank before us. Lights are 
moving in the courtyard ; but otherwise the old tomb-like 
repose characterises the building. 

One of the peons recognised me as I entered the court, 
and Altascar met me on the corridor. 

I was too weak to do more than beg his hospitality for 
the men who had dragged wearily with me. He looked at 
my hand, which still unconsciously held the broken “ riata.” 
I began, wearily, to tell him about George and my fears, 
but with a gentler courtesy than was even his wont, he 
gravely laid his hand on my shoulder. 

Poco a poco^ Senor, — not now. You are tired, you have 
hunger, you have cold. Necessary it is you should have 
peace. 

He took us into a small room and poured out some 
French cognac, which he gave to the men that had accom- 
panied me. They drank and threw themselves before the 
fire in the larger room. The repose of the building was 
intensified that night, and I even fancied that the footsteps 
on the corridor were lighter and softer. The old Spaniard’s 
habitual gravity was deeper ; we might have been shut out 
from the world as well as the whistling storm, behind those 
ancient walls with their time-worn inheritor. 

Before I could repeat my inquiry he retired. In a few 
minutes two smoking dishes of “ chupa ” with coffee were 
placed before us, and my men ate ravenously. I drank 
the coffee, but my excitement and weariness kept down tha 
instincts of hunger. 


Notes by Flood and Field, 85 

I was sitting sadly by the fire when he re-entered. 

You have eat ? ” 

I said, ‘‘Yes,” to please him. 

“ Bueno, eat when you can, — food and appetite are not 
always.” 

He said this with that Sancho-like simplicity with which 
most of his countrymen utter a proverb, as though it were 
an experience rather than a legend, and, taking the “ riata ” 
from the floor, held it almost tenderly before him. 

“ It was made by me, Senor.” 

“ I kept it as a clew to him, Don Altascar,” I said. “ If 
I could find him ” 

“ He is here.” 

“ Here ! and ” — but I could not say, “ well ! ” I under- 
stood the gravity of the old man’s face, the hushed footfalls, 
the tomb-like repose of the building in an electric flash of 
consciousness ; I held the clew to the broken riata at last. 
Altascar took my hand, and we crossed the corridor to a 
sombre apartment. A few tall candles were burning in 
sconces before the window. 

In an alcove there was a deep bed with its counterpane, 
pillows, and sheets heavily edged with lace, in all that 
splendid luxury which the humblest of these strange people 
lavish upon this single item of their household. I stepped 
beside it and saw George lying, as I had seen him once 
before, peacefully at rest But a greater sacrifice than that 
he had known was here, and his generous heart was stilled 
for ever. 

“He was honest and brave,” said the old man, and 
turned away. 

There was another figure in the room ; a heavy shawl 
drawn over her graceful outline, and her long black hair 
hiding the hands that buried her downcast face. I did not 


86 Notes by Flood and Field, 

seem to notice her, and, retiring presently, left the loving 
and loved together. 

When we were again beside the crackling fire, in the 
shifting shadows of the great chamber, Altascar told me 
how he had that morning met the horse of George Tryan 
swimming on the prairie ; how that, farther on, he found 
him lying, quite cold and dead, with no marks or bruises 
on his person ; that he had probably become exhausted in 
fording the creek, and that he had as probably reached the 
mound only to die for want of that help he had so freely 
given to others ; that, as a last act, he had freed his horse. 
These incidents were corroborated by many who collected 
in the great chamber that evening, — women and children, 
— most of them succoured through the devoted energies 
of him who lay cold and lifeless above. 

He was buried in the Indian mound, — the single spot of 
strange perennial greenness, which the poor aborigines had 
raised above the dusty plain. A little slab of sandstone 
with the initials “ G. T.” is his monument, and one of the 
bearings of the initial corner of the new survey of the 
Esphitu Santo Rancho.” 


( 87 ) 


([Oaittng for tge 

A FORT POINT IDYL. 

About an hour^s ride from the Plaza there is ft high bluff 
with the ocean breaking uninterruptedly along its rocky 
beach. There are several cottages on the sands, which look 
as if they had recently been cast up by a heavy sea. The 
cultivated patch behind each tenement is fenced in by 
bamboos, broken spars, and driftwood. With its few green 
cabbages and turnip-tops, each garden looks something 
like an aquarium with the water turned off. In fact you 
would not be surprised to meet a merman digging among 
the potatoes, or a mermaid milking a sea-cow hard by. 

Near this place formerly arose a great semaphoric tele- 
graph, with its gaunt arms tossed up against the horizon. 
It has been replaced by an observatory, connected with an 
electric nerve to the heart of the great commercial city. 
From this point the incoming ships are signalled, and again 
checked off at the City Exchange. And while we are here 
looking for the expected steamer, let me tell you a story. 

Not long ago, a simple, hard-working mechanic had 
amassed sufficient by diligent labour in the mines to send 
home for his wife and two children. He arrived in San 
Francisco a month before the time the ship was due, for he 
was a Western man, and had made the overland journey, and 
knew little of ships or seas or gales. He procured work in 


88 


Waiting for the Ship, 

the city, but as the time approached he would go to the 
shipping office regularly every day. The month passed, but 
the ship came not ; then a month and a week, two weeks, 
three weeks, two months, and then a year. 

The rough, patient face, with soft lines overlying its hard 
features, which had become a daily apparition at the ship- 
ping agenf s, then disappeared. It turned up one afternoon 
at the observatory as the setting sun relieved the operator 
from his duties. There was something so childlike and 
simple in the few questions asked by this stranger, touching 
his business, that the operator spent some time to explain. 
When the mystery of signals and telegraphs was unfolded, 
the stranger had one more question to ask. “ How long 
might a vessel be absent before they would give up expect- 
ing her ? ” The operator couldn’t tell ; it would depend on 
circumstances. Would it be a year ? Yes, it might be a 
year, and vessels had been given up for lost after two years 
and had come home. The stranger put his rough hand on 
the operator’s, and thanked him for his “ troubil,” and went 
away. 

Still the ship came not Stately clippers swept into the 
Gate, and merchantmen went by with colours flying, and 
the welcoming gun of the steamer often reverberated among 
the hills. Then the patient face, with the old resigned 
expression, but a brighter, wistful look in the eye, was 
regularly met on the crowded decks of the steamer as she 
disembarked her living freight. He may have had a dimly 
defined hope that the missing ones might yet come this 
way, as only another road over that strange unknown ex- 
panse. But he talked with ship captains and sailors, and 
even this last hope seemed to fail. When the careworn 
face and bright eyes were presented again at the observatory, 
the operator, busily engaged, could not spare time to answer 
foolish interrogatories, so he went away. But as night fell, 


Waiting for the Ship, 89 

he was seen sitting on the rocks with his face turned sea- 
ward, and was seated there all that night. 

When he became hopelessly insane, for that was what the 
physicians said made his eyes so bright and wistful, he was 
cared for by a fellow-craftsman who had known his troubles. 
He was allowed to indulge his fancy of going out to watch 
for the ship, in which she “ and the children ” were, at night 
when no one else was watching. He had made up his 
mind that the ship would come in at night. This, and the 
idea that he would relieve the operator, who would be tired 
with watching all day, seemed to please him. So he went 
out and relieved the operator every night ! 

For two years the ships came and went. He was there 
to see the outward-bound clipper, and greet her on her 
return. He was known only by a few who frequented the 
place. When he was missed at last from his accustomed 
spot, a day or two elapsed before any alarm was felt. One 
Sunday, a party of pleasure-seekers clambering over the 
rocks were attracted by the barking of a dog that had run 
on before them. When they came up they found a plainly 
dressed man lying there dead. There were a few papers in 
his pocket, — chiefly slips cut from different journals of old 
marine memoranda, — and his face was turned towards the 
distant sea. 



( 93 ) 


Cfie lucfe of iRoaring Camp. 

There was commotion in Roaring Camp. It could not 
have been a fight, for in 1850 that was not novel enough to 
have called together the entire settlement. The ditches and 
claims were not only deserted, but “Tuttle’s grocery” had 
contributed its gamblers, who, it will be remembered, 
calmly continued their game the day that French Pete and 
Kanaka Joe shot each other to death over the bar in the 
front room. The whole camp was collected before a rude 
cabin on the outer edge of the clearing. Conversation was 
carried on in a low tone, but the name of a woman was 
frequently repeated. It was a name familiar enough in the 
camp, — “ Cherokee Sal.” 

Perhaps the less said of her the better. She was a 
coarse, and, it is to be feared, a very sinful woman. But at 
that time she was the only woman in Roaring Camp, and 
was just then lying in sore extremity, when she most 
needed the ministration of her own sex. Dissolute, 
abandoned, and irreclaimable, she was yet suffering a 
martyrdom hard enough to bear even when veiled by 
sympathising womanhood, but now terrible in her lone- 
liness. The primal curse had come to her in that original 
isolation which must have made the punishment of the first 
transgression so dreadful. It was, perhaps, part of the ex- 
piation of her sin, that, at a moment when she most lacked 
her sex’s intuitive tenderness and care, she met^ only the 


94 'The Luck of Roaring Camf, 

half-contemptuous faces of her masculine associates. Yet a 
few of the spectators were, I think, touched by her suffer- 
ings. Sandy Tipton thought it was “ rough on Sal,” and, 
in the contemplation of her condition, for a moment rose 
superior to the fact that he had an ace and two bowers in 
his sleeve. 

It will be seen, also, that the situation was novel 
Deaths were by no means uncommon in Roaring Camp, 
but a birth was a new thing. People had been dismissed 
the camp effectively, finally, and with no possibility of 
return ; but this was the first time that anybody had been 
introduced ab initio. Hence the excitement. 

“You go in there. Stumpy,” said a prominent citizen 
known as “Kentuck,” addressing one of the loungers. 
“Go in there, and see what you kin do. YouVe had 
experience in them things.” 

Perhaps there was a fitness in the selection. Stumpy, in 
other climes, had been the putative head of two families ; 
in fact, it was owing to some legal informality in these 
proceedings that Roaring Camp — a city of refuge — was 
indebted to his company. The crowd approved the choice, 
and Stumpy was wise enough to bow to the majority. The 
door closed on the extempore surgeon and midwife, and 
Roaring Camp sat down outside, smoked its pipe, and 
awaited the issue. 

The assemblage numbered about a hundred men. One 
or two of these were actual fugitives from justice, some 
were criminal, and all were reckless. Physically, they 
exhibited no indication of their past lives and character. 
The greatest scamp had a Raphael face, with a profusion of 
blonde hair ; Oakhurst, a gambler, had the melancholy air 
and intellectual abstraction of a Hamlet ; the coolest and 
most courageous man was scarcely over five feet in height, 
with a soft voice and an embarrassed, timid manner. Ths 


The Luck of Roaring Camp, 95 

term “roughs” applied to them was a distinction rather 
than a definition. Perhaps in the minor details of fingers, 
toes, ears, &c., the camp may have been deficient, but these 
slight omissions did not detract from their aggregate force. 
The strongest man had but three fingers on his right hand ; 
the best shot had but one eye. 

Such was the physical aspect of the men that were 
dispersed around the cabin. The camp lay in a triangular 
valley beween two hills and a river. The only outlet was 
a steep trail over the summit of a hill that faced the cabin, 
now illuminated by the rising moon. The suffering woman 
might have seen it from the rude bunk whereon she lay, — 
seen it winding like a silver thread until it was lost in the 
stars above. 

A fire of withered pine-boughs added sociability to the 
gathering. By degrees the natural levity of Roaring Camp 
returned. Bets were freely offered and taken regarding the 
result. Three to five- that “ Sal would get through with 
it ; ” even that the child would survive ; side bets as to the 
sex and complexion of the coming stranger. In the midst 
of an excited discussion an exclamation came from those 
nearest the door, and the camp stopped to listen. Above 
the swaying and moaning of the pines, the swift rush of the 
river, and the crackling of the fire rose a sharp, querulous 
cry, — a cry unlike -anything heard before in the camp. 
The pines stopped moaning, the river ceased to rush, and 
the fire to crackle. It seemed as if Nature had stopped to 
listen too. 

The camp rose to its feet as one man ! It was proposed 
to explode a barrel of gunpowder, but, in consideration of 
the situation of the mother, better counsels prevailed, and 
only a few revolvers were discharged; for, whether owing 
►o the rude surgery of the camp, or some other reason, 
Cherokee Sal was sinking fast Within an hour she had 


96 The Luck of Roaring Camp, 

climbed, as it were, that rugged road that led to the stari, 
and so passed out of Roaring Camp, its sin and shame, for 
ever. I do not think that the announcement disturbed them 
much, except in speculation as to the fate of the child. 
“Can he live now?” was asked of Stumpy. The answer 
was doubtful. The only other being of Cherokee Sal’s sex 
and maternal condition in the settlement was an ass. 
There was some conjecture as to fitness, but the experi- 
ment was tried. It was less problematical than the ancient 
treatment of Romulus and Remus, and apparently as 
successful. 

When these details were completed, which exhausted 
another hour, the door was opened, and the anxious crowd 
of men, who had already formed themselves into a queue, 
entered in single file. Beside the low bunk or shelf, on 
which the figure of the mother was starkly outlined below 
the blankets, stood a pine table. On this a candle-box was 
placed, and within it, swathed in staring red flannel, lay the 
last arrival at Roaring Camp, Beside the candle-box was 
placed a hat Its use was soon indicated. “ Gentlemen,” 
said Stumpy, with a singular mixture of authority and ex 
officio complacency, — “ Gentlemen will please pass in at the 
front door, round the table, and out at the back door. 
Them as wishes to contribute anything toward the orphan 
will find a hat handy.” The first man entered with his hat 
on j he uncovered, however, as he looked about him, and 
so unconsciously set an example to the next. In such 
communities good and bad actions are catching. As the 
procession filed in comments were audible, — criticisms 
addressed perhaps rather to Stumpy in the character of show- 
man : — “ Is that him? ” “ Mighty small specimen “Hasn’t 
mor’n got the colour;” “Ain’t bigger nor a derringer.” 
The contributions were as characteristic : — A silver tobacco 
box ; a doubloon ; a navy revolver, silver mounted ; a gold 


97 


The Luck of Roaring Camp. 

specimen \ a very beautifully embroidered lady’s handker- 
chief (from Oakhurst the gambler) ; a diamond breastpin ; a 
diamond ring (suggested by the pin, with the remark from 
the giver that he “saw that pin and went two diamonds 
better ”) ; a slung shot ; a Bible (contributor not detected) : 
a golden spur ; a silver teaspoon (the initials, I regret to 
say, were not the giver’s); a pair of surgeon’s shears; a 
lancet ; a Bank of England note for ; and about $200 
in loose gold and silver coin. During these proceedings 
Stumpy maintained a silence as impassive as the dead on his 
left, a gravity as inscrutable as that of the newly-born on 
his right. Only one incident occurred to break the mono- 
tony of the curious procession. As Kentuck bent over the 
candle-box half curiously, the child turned, and, in a spasm 
of pain, caught at his groping finger, and held it fast for a 
moment. Kentuck looked foolish and embarrassed. Some- 
thing like a blush tried to assert itself in his weather-beaten 
cheek. “ The d — d little cuss ! ” he said, as he extricated 
his finger, with perhaps more tenderness and care than he 
might have been deemed capable of showing. He held 
that finger a little apart from its fellows as he went out, 
and examined it curiously. The examination provoked the 
same original remark in regard to the child. In fact, he 
seemed to enjoy repeating it. “ He rastled with my finger,” 
he remarked to Tipton, holding up the member, “ the d — d 
little cuss ! ” 

It was four o’clock before the camp sought repose. A 
light burnt in the cabin where the watchers sat, for Stumpy 
did not go to bed that night. Nor did Kentuck. He 
drank quite freely, and related with great gusto his experi- 
ence, invariably ending with his characteristic condemna- 
tion of the newcomer. It seemed to relieve him of any 
unjust implication of sentiment, and Kentuck had the 
weaknesses of the nobler sex. When everybody else had 

VOL. II. G 


98 The Luck of Roaring Camp, 

gone to bed, he walked down to the river and whistled 
reflectingly. Then he walked up the gulch past the cabin, 
still whistling with demonstrative unconcern. At a large 
redwood tree he paused and retraced his steps^ and again 
passed the cabin. Half-way down to the river’s bank he 
again paused, and then returned and knocked at the door. 
It was opened by Stumpy. “ How goes it ? ” said Kentuck, 
looking past Stumpy toward the candle-box. “ All serene ! ” 
replied Stumpy. “Anything up?” “Nothing.” There 
was a pause — an embarrassing one — Stumpy still holding 
the door. Then Kentuck had recourse to his finger, which 
he held up to Stumpy. “ Rastled with it, — the d — d little 
cuss,” he said, and retired. 

The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture as 
Roaring Camp afforded. After her body had been com- 
mitted to the hillside, there was a formal meeting of the 
camp to discuss what should be done with her infant. A 
resolution to adopt it was unanimous and enthusiastic. But 
an animated discussion in regard to the manner and feasi- 
bility of providing for its wants at once sprang up. It was 
remarkable that the argument partook of none of those 
fierce personalities with which discussions were usually con- 
ducted at Roaring Camp. Tipton proposed that they 
should send the child to Red Dog, — a distance of forty 
miles, — where female attention could be procured. But 
the unlucky suggestion met with fierce and unanimous 
opposition. It was evident that no plan which entailed 
parting from their new acquisition would for a moment be 
entertained. “ Besides,” said Tom Ryder, “ them fellows 
at Red Dog would swap it, and ring in somebody else on 
us.” A disbelief in the honesty of other camps prevailed 
at Roaring Camp, as in other places. 

The introduction of a female nurse in the camp also met 
with objection. It was argued that no decent woman could 


99 


The Luck of Roaring Camp. 

be prevailed to accept Roaring Camp as her home, and the 
speaker urged that “they didn’t want any more of the other 
kind.” This unkind allusion to the defunct mother, harsh 
as it may seem, was the first spasm of propriety, — the first 
symptom of the camp’s regeneration. Stumpy advanced 
nothing. Perhaps he felt a certain delicacy in interfering 
with the selection of a possible successor in office. But, 
when questioned, he averred stoutly that he and 
“Jinny” — the mammal before alluded to — could manage 
to rear the child. There was something original, inde- 
pendent, and heroic about the plan that pleased the camp. 
Stumpy was retained. Certain articles were sent for to 
Sacramento. “ Mind,” said the treasurer, as he pressed a bag 
of gold-dust into the expressman’s hand, “ the best that can 
be got, — lace, you know, and filigree-work and frills, — d — n 
the cost I ” 

Strange to say, the child thrived. Perhaps the invigo- 
rating climate of the mountain camp was compensation for 
material deficiencies. Nature took the foundling to her 
broader breast. In that rare atmosphere of the Sierra foot- 
hills, — that air pungent with balsamic odour, that ethereal 
cordial at once bracing and exhilarating, — he may have 
found food and nourishment, or a subtle chemistry that 
transmuted ass’s milk to lime and phosphorus. Stumpy 
inclined to the belief that it was the latter and good nursing. 
“ Me and that ass,” he would say, “ has been father and 
mother to him ! Don’t you,” he would add, apostro- 
phising the helpless bundle before him, “never go back 
on us.” 

By the time he was a month old the necessity of giving 
him a name became apparent. He had generally been 
known as “ The Kid,” “ Stumpy’s Boy,” “ The Coyote ” (an 
allusion to his vocal powers), and even by Kentuck’s endear* 
iag diminutive of “ The d — d little cuss.” But these were 


lOO 


The Luck of Roaring Camp, 

felt to be vague and unsatisfactory, and were at last dismissed 
under another influence. Gamblers and adventurers are 
generally superstitious, and Oakhurst one day declared that 
the baby had brought the luck to Roaring Camp. It 
was certain that of late they had been successful. “ Luck ” 
was the name agreed upon, with the prefix of Tommy for 
greater convenience. No allusion was made to the mother, 
and the father was unknown. “ It’s better,” said the philo- 
sophical Oakhurst, “ to take a fresh deal all round. Call 
him Luck, and start him fair.” A day was accordingly set 
apart for the christening. What was meant by this ceremony 
the reader rhay imagine who has already gathered some idea 
of the reckless irreverence of Roaring Camp. The master 
of ceremonies was one “Boston,” a noted wag, and the 
occasion seemed to promise the greatest facetiousness. 
This ingenious satirist had spent two days in preparing a 
burlesque of the Church service, with pointed local allusions. 
The choir was properly trained, and Sandy Tipton was to 
stand godfather. But after the procession had marched to 
the grove with music and banners, and the child had been 
deposited before a mock altar. Stumpy stepped before the 
expectant crowd. “It ain’t my style to spoil fun, boys,” said 
the little man, stoutly eyeing the faces around him, “ but it 
strikes me that this thing ain’t exactly on the squar. It’s 
playing it pretty low down on this yer baby to ring in fun 
on him that he ain’t goin’ to understand. And ef there’s 
goin’ to be any godfathers round, I’d like to see who’s got 
any better rights than me.” A silence followed Stumpy’s 
speech. To the credit of all humourists be it said that the 
first man to acknowledge its justice was the satirist thus 
stopped of his fun. “ But,” said Stumpy, quickly following 
up his advantage, “ we’re here for a christening, and we’ll 
have it. I proclaim you Thomas Luck, according to the 
laws of the United States and the State of California, m 


The Luck of Roaring Camp. loi 

help me God.” It was the first time that the name of the 
Deity had been otherwise uttered than profanely in the 
camp. The form of christening was perhaps even more 
ludicrous than the satirist had conceived ; but, strangely 
enough, nobody saw it and nobody laughed. ‘‘ Tommy ” 
was christened as seriously as he would have been under a 
Christian roof, and cried and was comforted in as orthodox 
fashion. 

And so the work of regeneration began in Roaring 
Camp. Almost imperceptibly a change came over the 
settlement. The cabin assigned to “Tommy Luck” — or 
“The Luck,” as he was more frequently called — first 
showed signs of improvement. It was kept scrupulously 
clean and whitewashed. Then it was boarded, clothed, 
and papered. The rosewood cradle, packed eighty miles by 
mule, had, in Stumpy’s way of putting it, “sorter killed 
the rest of the furniture.” So the rehabilitation of the 
cabin became a necessity. The men who were in the habit 
of lounging in at Stumpy’s to see “ how ‘ The Luck ’ got on ” 
seemed to appreciate the change, and, in self-defence, the 
rival establishment of “ Tuttle’s grocery ” bestirred itself 
and imported a carpet and mirrors. The reflections of the 
latter on the appearance of Roaring Camp tended to pro- 
duce stricter habits of personal cleanliness. Again, Stumpy 
imposed a kind of quarantine upon those who aspired to the 
honour and privilege of holding The Luck. It was a 
cruel mortification to Kentuck — who, in the carelessness of 
a large nature and the habits of frontier life, had begun to 
regard all garments as a second cuticle, which, like a 
snake’s, only sloughed off through decay — to be debarred 
this privilege from certain prudential reasons. Yet such 
was the subtle influence of innovation that he thereafter 
appeared regularly every afternoon in a clean shirt and 
face still shining from his ablutions. Nor were moral and 


102 The Luck of Roaring Camp, 

social sanitary laws neglected. “ Tommy,” who was sup- 
posed to spend his whole existence in a persistent attempt 
to repose, must not be disturbed by noise. The shouting 
and yelling which had gained the camp its infelicitous title 
were not permitted within hearing distance of Stumpy’s. 
The men conversed in whispers or smoked with Indian 
gravity. Profanity was tacitly given up in these sacred pre- 
cincts, and throughout the camp a popular form of exple- 
tive, known as “ D — n the luck ! ” and “ Curse the luck ! ” 
was abandoned, as having a new personal bearing. Vocal 
music was not interdicted, being supposed to have a sooth- 
ing, tranquillising quality, and one song, sung by “ Man-o’- 
War Jack,” an English sailor from her Majesty’s Australian 
colonies, was quite popular as a lullaby. It was a lugubri- 
ous recital of the exploits of “ the Arethusa, Seventy-four,” 
in a muffled minor, ending with a prolonged dying fall at 
the burden of each verse, “ On b-oo-o-ard of the Arethusa.” 
It was a fine sight to see Jack holding The Luck, rocking 
from side to side as if with the motion of a ship, and croon- 
ing forth this naval ditty. Either through the peculiar 
rocking of Jack or the length of his song — it contained 
ninety stanzas, and was continued with conscientious delibe- 
ration to the bitter end, — the lullaby generally had the desired 
effect. At such times the men would lie at full length undei 
the trees in the soft summer twilight, smoking their pipes 
and drinking in the melodious utterances. An indistinct 
idea that this was pastoral happiness pervaded the camp. 
“This ’ere kind o’ think,” said the Cockney Simmons, 
meditatively reclining on his elbow, “is ’evingly.” It re- 
minded him of Greenwich. 

On the long summer days The Luck was usually carried 
to the gulch from whence the golden store of Roaring 
Camp was taken. There, on a blanket spread over pino 
boughs, he would lie while the men were working in the 


103 


The Luck of Roaring Camp, 

ditches below. Latterly there was a rude attempt to deco- 
rate this bower with flowers and sweet-smelling shrubs, and 
generally some one would bring him a cluster of wild honey- 
suckles, azaleas, or the painted blossoms of Las Mariposas. 
The men had suddenly awakened to the fact that there 
were beauty and significance in these trifles, which they had 
so long trodden carelessly beneath their feet. A flake of 
glittering mica, a fragment of variegated quartz, a bright 
pebble from the bed of the creek, became beautiful to eyes 
thus cleared and strengthened, and were invariably put 
aside for The Luck. It was wonderful how many trea- 
sures the woods and hillsides yielded that “ would do for 
Tommy.” Surrounded by playthings such as never child 
out of fairyland had before, it is to be hoped that Tommy 
was content. He appeared to be serenely happy, albeit 
there was an infantine gravity about him, a contemplative 
light in his round grey eyes, that sometimes worried Stumpy. 
He was always tractable and quiet, and it is recorded that 
once, having crept beyond his “corral,” — a hedge of tesse- 
lated pine-boughs, which surrounded his bed, — he dropped 
over the bank on his head in the soft earth, and remained 
with his mottled legs in the air in that position for at least 
five minutes with unflinching gravity. He was extricated 
without a murmur. I hesitate to record the many other 
instances of his sagacity, which rest, unfortunately, upon 
the statements of prejudiced friends. Some of them were 
not without a tinge of superstition. “ I crep’ up the bank 
just now,” said Kentuck one day, in a breathless state of 
excitement, “ and dern my skin if he wasn’t a talking to a 
jaybird as was a sittin’ on his lap. There they was, just as 
free and sociable as anything you please, a jawin’ at each 
other just like to cherrybums.” Howbeit, whether creep- 
ing over the pine-boughs or lying lazily on his back blinking 


to4 The Luck of Roaring Camp. 

at the leaves above him, to him the birds sang, the squifrela 
chattered, and the flowers bloomed. Nature was his nurte 
and playfellow. For him she would let slip between the leaVes 
golden shafts of sunlight that fell just within his grasp ; 
she would send wandering breezes to visit him with the 
balm of bay and resinous gum ; to him the tall redwood? 
nodded familiarly and sleepily, the bumble-bees buzzed, and 
the rooks cawed a slumbrous accompaniment 

Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp. They 
were “flush times,” and the luck was with them. The- 
claims had yielded enormously. The camp was jealous of 
its privileges and looked suspiciously on strangers. No , 
encouragement was given to immigration, and, to mal^jei' 
their seclusion more perfect, the land on either side of 
•the mountain wall that surrounded the camp they duly 
pre-empted. This, and a reputation for singular proficiency 
with the revolver, kept the reserve of Roaring Camp invio- 
late. The expressman — their only connecting link with the 
surrounding world — sometimes told wonderful stories of 
the camp. He would say, “ They’ve a street up there in 
‘Roaring’ that would lay over any street in Red Dog. 
They’ve got vines and flowers round their houses, and they 
wash themselves twice a day. But they’re mighty rough 
on strangers, and they worship an Ingin baby.” 

With the prosperity of the camp came a desire for 
further improvement. It was proposed to build a hotel in 
the following spring, and to invite one or two decent 
families to reside there for the sake of The Luck, wRo 
might perhaps profit by female companionship. The sacrifice 
that this confession to the sex cost these men, who were 
fiercely sceptical in regard to its general virtue and usefulness, 
can only be accounted for by their affection for Tommy. 
\ few stillf held out. But the resolve could not be casried 


The Luck of Roaring Camp. 105 

into effect for three months, and the minority meekly 
yielded in the hope that something might turn up to pre- 
vent it And it did. 

The winter of 1851 will long be remembered in the foot- 
hills. The snow lay deep on the Sierras, and every moun- 
tain creek became a river, and every river a lake. Each 
gorge and gulch was transformed into a tumultuous water- 
course that descended the hillsides, tearing down giant 
trees and scattering its drift and debris along the plain. 
Red Dog had been twice under water, and Roaring Camp 
had been forewarned. “Water put the gold into them 
gulches,” said Stumpy. “ It’s been here once and will be 
here again ! ” And that night the North Fork suddenly 
leaped over its banks and swept up the triangular valley of 
Roaring Camp. 

In the confusion of rushing water, crashing trees, and 
crackling timber, and the darkness which seemed to flow 
with the water and blot out the fair valley, but little could 
be done to collect the scattered camp. When the morning 
broke, the cabin of Stumpy, nearest the river-bank, was gone. 
Higher up the gulch they found the body of its unlucky 
owner; but the pride, the hope, the joy. The Luck, of 
Roaring Camp had disappeared. They were returning with 
sad hearts when a shout from the bank recalled them. 

It was a relief-boat from down the river.* They had 
picked up, they said, a man and an infant, nearly exhausted, 
about two miles below. Did anybody know them, and 
did they belong here ? 

It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck lying 
there, cruelly crushed and bruised, but still holding The 
Luck of Roaring Camp in his arms. As they bent over the 
strangely assorted pair, they saw that the child was cold 
and pulseless. “ He is dead,” said one. Kentuck opened 
his eyes. “Dead?” he repeated feebly. “Yes, my man, 


io6 The Luck of Roaring Camp, 

and you are dying too.” A smile lit the eyes of the expir- 
ing Kentuck. “ Dying 1 ” he repeated ; “ he’s a taking me 
with him. Tell the boys I’ve got The Luck with me now ; ” 
and the strong man, clinging to the frail babe as a drown- 
ing man is said to cling to a straw, drifted away into the 
shadowy river that flows forever to the unknown se^ 


( 107 ) 


CSc Cutcasitg of pofeer JTlat 

As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main 
street of Poker Flat on the morning of the 23d of Novem- 
ber 1850, he was conscious of a change in its moral atmo- 
sphere since the preceding night Two or three men, 
conversing earnestly together, ceased as he approached, 
and exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath 
lull in the air, which, in a settlement unused to Sabbath 
influences, looked ominous. 

Mr. Oakhurst’s calm handsome face betrayed small con- 
cern in these indications. Whether he was conscious of 
any predisposing cause was another questioa “ I reckon 
they’re after somebody,” he reflected; “likely it’s me.” 
He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with which he 
had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from 
his neat boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any 
further conjecture. 

In point of fact, Poker Flat was “ after somebody.” It 
had lately suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two 
valuable horses, and a prominent citizen. It was experi- 
encing a spasm of virtuous reaction, quite as lawless and 
angovernable as any of the acts that had provoked it. A 
secret committee had determined to rid the town of all 
improper persons. This was done permanently in regard 
of two men who were then hanging from the boughs of 1 


lo8 The Outcasts of Poker Flat. 

sycamore in the gulch, and temporarily in the banishment 
of certain other objectionable characters. I regret to say 
that some of these were ladies. It is but due to the sex, 
however, to state that their impropriety was professional, 
and it was only in such easily established standards of evil 
that Poker Flat ventured to sit in judgment. 

Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was in- 
cluded in this category. A few of the committee had 
urged hanging him as a possible example and a sure 
method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets of the 
sums he had won from them. “ It’s agin justice,” said 
Jim Wheeler, “to let this yer young man from Roaring 
Camp — an entire stranger — carry away our money.” But 
a crude sentiment of equity residing in the breasts of those 
who had been fortunate enough to win from Mr. Oakhurst 
overruled this narrower local prejudice. 

Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic 
calmness, none the less coolly that he was aware of the 
hesitation of his judges. He was too much of a gambler 
not to accept fate. With him ‘life was at best an uncertain 
game, and he recognised the usual percentage in favour of 
the dealer. 

A body of armed men accompanied the deported wicked- 
ness of Poker Flat to the outskirts of the settlement. 
Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was known to be a coolly 
desperate man, and for whose intimidation the armed 
escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a 
young woman familiarly known as “The Duchess;” 
another who had won the title of “ Mother Shipton ; ” 
and “Uncle Billy,” a suspected sluice-robber and con- 
firmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no comments 
from the spectators, nor was any word uttered by the 
escort. Only when the gulch which marked the uttermost 
limit of Poker Flat was reached, the leader spoke briefly 


The Outcasts of Poker Flat, 109 

and to the point. The exiles were forbidden to return at 
the peril oi their lives. 

As the escort disappeared, their pent up feelings found 
vent in a few hysterical tears from the Duchess, some bad 
language from Mother Shipton, and a Parthian volley of 
expletives from Uncle Billy. The philosophic Oakhurst 
alone remained silent. He listened calmly to Mother 
Shipton’s desire to cut somebody’s heart out, to the 
repeated statements of the Duchess that she would die 
in the road, and to the alarming oaths that seemed to be 
bumped out of Uncle Billy as he rode forward. With the 
easy good-humour characteristic of his class, he insisted 
upon exchanging his own riding-horse, “Five Spot,” for 
the sorry mule which the Duchess rode. But even this 
act did not draw the party into any closer sympathy. The 
young woman readjusted her somewhat draggled plumes 
with a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shipton eyed the 
possessor of “Five Spot” with malevolence, and Uncle 
Billy included the whole party in one sweeping anathema. 

The road to Sandy Bar — a camp that, not having as yet 
experienced the regenerating influences of Poker Flat, con- 
sequently seemed to offer some invitation to the emigrants 
— lay over a steep mountain range. It was distant a day’s 
severe travel. In that advanced season the party soon 
passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foot-hills 
into the dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras. The trail 
was narrow and difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling 
out of her saddle upon the ground, declared her intention 
of going no farther, and the party halted. 

The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded 
amphitheatre, surrounded on three sides by precipitous 
cliffs of naked granite, sloped gently toward the crest of 
another precipice that overlooked the valley. It was, 
undoubtedly, the most suitable spot for a camp, had 


no The Outcasts of Poker Flat. 

camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew thaS 
scarcely half the journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished, 
and the party were not equipped or provisioned for delay. 
This fact he pointed out to his companions curtly, with a 
philosophic commentary on the folly of “ throwing up their 
hand before the game was played out.” But they were 
furnished with liquor, which in this emergency stood them 
in place of food, fuel, rest, and prescience. In spite of 
his remonstrances, it was not long before they were more 
or less under its influence. Uncle Billy passed rapidly 
from a bellicose state into one of stupor, the Duchess 
became maudlin, and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oak- 
hurst alone remained erect, leaning against a rock, calmly 
surveying them. 

Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a pro- 
fession which required coolness, impassiveness, and pre- 
sence of mind, and, in his own language, he “couldn’t 
afford it.” As he gazed at his recumbent fellow-exiles, the 
loneliness begotten of his pariah-trade, his habits of life, 
his very vices, for the first time seriously oppressed him. 
He bestirred himself in dusting his black clothes, washing 
his hands and face, and other acts characteristic of his 
studiously neat habits, and for a moment forgot his annoy- 
ance. The thought of deserting his weaker and more 
pitiable companions never perhaps occurred to him. Yet 
he could not help feeling the want of that excitement 
which, singularly enough, was most conducive to that calm 
equanimity for which he was notorious. He looked at the 
gloomy walls that rose a thousand feet sheer above the 
circling pines around him, at the sky ominously clouded, 
at the valley below, already deepening into shadow ; and, 
doing so, suddenly he heard his own name called. 

A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh. 


Ill 


The Outcasts of Poker Flat. 

open face of the newcomer Mr. Oakhurst recognised Tom 
Simson, otherwise known as “The Innocent,’^ of Sandy 
Bar. He had met him some months before over a “ little 
game,” and had, with perfect equanimity, won the entire 
fortune — amounting to some forty dollars — of that guileless 
youth. After the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew 
the youthful speculator behind the door and thus addressed 
him : “ Tommy, you’re a good little man, but you can’t 
gamble worth a cent. Don’t try it over again.” He then 
handed him his money back, pushed him gently from the 
room, and so made a devoted slave of Tom Simson. 

There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and 
enthusiastic greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, 
he said, to go to Poker Flat to seek his fortune. “Alone?” 
No, not exactly alone ; in fact (a giggle), he had run away 
with Piney Woods. Didn’t Mr. Oakhurst remember Piney? 
She that used to wait on the table at the Temperance 
House? They had been engaged a long time, but old 
Jake Woods had objected, and so they had run away, and 
were going to Poker Flat to be married, and here they 
were. And they were tired out, and how lucky it was they 
had found a place to camp and company. All this the 
Innocent delivered rapidly, while Piney, a stout, comely 
damsel of fifteen, emerged from behind the pine-tree, 
where she had been blushing unseen, and rode to the 
side of her lover. 

Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, 
still less with propriety ; but he had a vague idea that the 
situation was not fortunate. He retained, however, his 
presence of mind sufficiently to kick Uncle Billy, who was 
about to say something, and Uncle Billy was sober enough 
to recognise in Mr. Oakhurst’s kick a superior power that 
would not bear trifling. He then endeavoured to dissuade 


1 1 2 The Outcasts of Poker Flat, 

Tom Simson from delaying further, but in vain. He even 
pointed out the fact that there was no provision, nor means 
of making a camp. But, unluckily, the Innocent met this 
objection by assuring the party that he was provided with 
an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the discovery 
of a rude attempt at a loghouse near the trail. “Piney 
can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst,” said the Innocent, pointing 
to the Duchess, “and I can shift for myself.” 

Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst’s admonishing foot saved 
Uncle Billy from bursting into a roar of laughter. As it 
was, he felt compelled to retire up the canon until he could 
recover his gravity. There he confided the joke to the tall 
pine-trees, with many slaps of his leg, .contortions of his 
face, and the usual profanity. But when he returned to 
the party, he found them seated by a fire — for the air had 
grown strangely chill and the sky overcast — in apparently 
amicable conversation. Piney was actually talking in an 
impulsive girlish fashion to the Duchess, who was listening 
with an interest and animation she had not shown for 
many days. The Innocent was holding forth, apparently 
with equal effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother Shipton, 
who was actually relaxing into amiability. “ Is this yer a 
d— d ,picnic?” said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn, as he 
surveyed the sylvan group, the glancing firelight, and the 
tethered animals in the foreground. Suddenly an idea 
mingled with the alcoholic fumes that disturbed his brain. 
It was apparently of a jocular nature, for he felt impelled 
to slap his leg again and cram his fist into his mouth. 

As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight 
breeze rocked the tops of the pine-trees and moaned 
through their long and gloomy aisles. The ruined cabin, 
patched and covered with pine-boughs, was set apart for the 
ladies. As the lovers parted, they unaffectedly exchanged 
a kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard 


The Outcasts of Poker Flat, 1 1 3 

above the swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the 
malevolent Mother Shipton were probably too stunned to 
remark upon this last evidence of simplicity, and so turned 
without a word to the hut. The fire was replenished, the 
men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes were 
asleep. 

Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he 
awoke benumbed and cold. As he stirred the dying fire, 
the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought to his 
cheek that which caused the blood to leave it, — snow ! 

He started to his feet with the intention of awakening 
the sleepers, for there was no time to lose. But turning to 
where Uncle Billy had been lying, he found him gone. A 
suspicion leaped to his brain and a curse to his lips. He 
ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered ; they 
were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidly dis- 
appearing in the snow. 

The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back 
to the fire with his usual calm. He did not waken the 
sleepers. The Innocent slumbered peacefully, with a smile 
on his good-humoured, freckled face; the virgin Piney 
slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though attended 
by celestial guardians, and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his 
blanket over his shoulders, stroked his mustaches and 
waited for the dawn. It came slowly in a whirling mist 
of snowflakes that dazzled and confused the eye. What 
could be seen of the landscape appeared magically changed. 
He looked over the valley and summed up the present 
and future in two words, — “ Snowed in ! ” 

A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately 
for the party, had been stored within the hut, and so 
escaped the felonious fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed the 
fact that with care and prudence they might last ten days 
longer. “That is,” said Mr. Oakhurst, sotto voce to the 

VOL. II. H 


1 14 The Outcasts of Poker Flat. 

Innocent, “if you’re willing to board us. If you ain’t— 
and perhaps you’d better no,t — you can wait till Uncle Billy 
gets back with provisions.” For some occult reason, Mr. 
Oakhurst could not bring himself to disclose Uncle Billy’s 
rascality, and so offered the hypothesis that he had wan- 
dered from the camp and had accidentally stampeded the 
animals. He dropped a warning to the Duchess and 
Mother Shipton, who of course knew the facts of their 
associate’s defection. “ They’ll find out the truth about us 
all when they find out anything,” he added significantly, 
“and there’s no good frightening them now.” 

Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the 
disposal of Mr. Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the prospect 
of their enforced seclusion. “ We’ll have a good camp for 
a week, and then the snow’ll melt, and we’ll all go back 
together.” The cheerful gaiety of the young man and 
Mr. Oakhurst’s calm infected the others. The Innocent, 
with the aid of pine-boughs, extemporised a thatch for the 
roofless cabin, and the Duchess directed Piney in the 
rearrangement of the interior with a taste and tact that 
opened the blue eyes of that provincial maiden to their 
fullest extent. “ I reckon now you’re used to fine things at 
Poker Flat,” said Piney. The Duchess turned away sharply 
to conceal something that reddened her cheeks through 
their professional tint, and Mother Shipton requested Piney 
not to “ chatter.” But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from 
a weary search for the trail, he heard the sound of happy 
laughter echoed from the rocks. He stopped in some 
alarm, and his thoughts first naturally reverted to the 
whisky, which he had prudently cached. “And yet it don’t 
somehow sound like whisky,” said the gambler. It was 
not until he caught sight of the blazing fire through the 
still blinding storm and the group around it that he settled 
to the conviction that it was “square fua” 


IIS 


The Outcasts of Poker Flat, 

Whether Mr. Oakhurst had cached his cards Tvith the 
whisky as something debarred the free access of the com- 
munity, I cannot say. It was certain that, in Mother 
Shipton’s words, he “didn’t say cards once” during that 
evening. Haply the time was beguiled by an accordion, 
produced somewhat ostentatiously by Tom Simson from 
his pack. Notwithstanding some difficulties attending the 
manipulation of this instrument, Piney Woods managed to 
pluck several reluctant melodies from its keys, to an accom- 
paniment by the Innocent on a pair of bone castanets. 
But the crowning festivity of the evening was reached in a 
rude camp-meeting hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, 
sang with great earnestness and vociferation. I fear that a 
certain defiant tone and Covenanter’s swing to its chorus, 
rather than any devotional quality, caused it speedily to 
infect the others, who at last joined in the refrain :— *• 

I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord, 

And I’m bound to die in His army.” 

The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above 
the miserable group, and the flames of their altar leaped 
heavenward, as if in token of the vow. 

At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, 
and the stars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp 
Mr. Oakhurst, whose professional habits had enabled him 
to live on the smallest possible amount of sleep, in dividing 
the watch with Tom Simson somehow managed to take 
upon himself the greater part of that duty. He excused 
himself to the Innocent by saying that he had “ often been 
a week without sleep.” “Doing what?” asked Tom. 
“ Poker I ” replied Oakhurst sententiously. “ When a man 
gets a streak of luck, — nigger-luck, — he don’t get tired 
The luck gives in first Luck,” continued the gambleii 


Ii6 The Outcasts of Poker Flat 

reflectively, “is a mighty queer thing. All you know 
about it for certain is that it’s bound to change. And 
it’s finding out when it’s going to change that makes 
you. We’ve had a streak of bad luck since we left Poker 
Flat, — you come along, and slap you get into it, too. If 
you can hold your cards right along you’re all right -For,” 
added the gambler, with chearful irrelevance — 

“ * I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord, 

And I’m bound to die in His army.’ ” 

The third day came, and the sun, looking through the 
white-curtained valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly 
decreasing store of provisions for the morning meal. It 
was one of the peculiarities of that mountain climate that 
its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the wintry landscape, 
as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But it revealed 
drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut, — a hope- 
less, uncharted, trackless sea of white lying below the rocky 
shores to which the castaways still clung. Through the 
marvellously clear air the smoke of the pastoral village of 
Poker Flat rose miles away. Mother Shipton saw it, and 
from a remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness hurled in that 
direction a final malediction. It was her last vituperative 
attempt, and perhaps for that reason was invested with a 
certain degree of sublimity. It did her good, she privately 
informed the Duchess. “ Just you go out there and cuss, 
and see.” She then set herself to the task of amusing “ the 
child,” as she and the Duchess were pleased to call Piney. 
Piney was no chicken, but it was a soothing and original 
theory of the pair thus to account for the fact that she 
didn’t swear and wasn’t improper. 

When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy 
^Otes of the accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and 


The Outcasts of Poker Flat. 1 1 jr 

long-drawn gasps by the flickering camp-flre. But music 
failed to fill entirely the aching void left by insufficient 
food, and a new diversion was proposed by Piney, — story- 
telling. Neither Mr. Oakhurst nor his female companions 
caring to relate their personal experiences, this plan would 
have failed too, but for the Innocent. Some months 
before he had chanced upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope’s 
ingenious translation of the “ Iliad.” He now proposed to 
narrate the principal incidents of that poem — having 
thoroughly mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the 
words — in the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so 
for the rest of that night the Homeric demigods again 
walked the earth. Trojan bully and wily Greek wrestled 
in the winds, and the great pines in the canon seemed to 
bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst 
listened with quiet satisfaction. Most especially was he 
interested in the fate of “ Ash-heels,” as the Innocent per- 
sisted in denominating the “swift-footed Achilles.” 

So, with small food and much of Homer and the accor- 
dion, a week passed over the heads of the outcasts. The 
sun again forsook them, and again from leaden skies the 
snowflakes were sifted over the land. Day by day closer 
around them drew the snowy circle, until at last they looked 
from their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white, that 
towered twenty feet above their heads. It became more 
and more difficult to replenish their fires, even from the 
fallen trees beside them, now half hidden in the drifts. 
And yet no one complained. The lovers turned from the 
dreary prospect and looked into each other’s eyes and were 
happy. Mr. Oakhurst settled himself coolly to the losing 
game before him. The Duchess, more cheerful than she 
had been, assumed the care of Piney. Only Mother Ship- 
ton — once the strongest of the party — seemed to sicken 


Ii8 The Outcasts of Poker Flat, 

and fade. At midnight on the tenth day she called 
Oakhurst to her side. “ I’m going,” she said, in a voice of 
querulous weakness, “but don’t say anything about it. 
Don’t waken the kids. Take the bundle from under my 
head and open it.” Mr. Oakhurst did so. It contained 
Mother Shipton’s rations for the last week, untouched. 
“ Give ’em to the child,” she said, pointing to the sleeping 
Piney. “You’ve starved yourself,” said the gambler. 
“ That’s what they call it,” said the woman querulously, as 
she lay down again, and, turning her face to the wall, passed 
quietly away. 

The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, 
and Homer was forgotten. When the body of Mother 
Shipton had been committed to the snow, Mr. Oakhurst 
took the Innocent aside, and showed him a pair of snow- 
shoes, which he had fashioned from the old pack-saddle. 
“There’s one chance in a hundred to save her yet,” he said, 
pointing to Piney; “but it’s there,” he added, pointing 
toward Poker Flat. “ If you can reach there in two days 
she’s safe.” “And you?” asked Tom Simson. “ 111 stay 
here,” was the curt reply. 

The lovers parted with a long embrace. “ You are not 
going, too?” said the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst 
apparently waiting to accompany him. “ A.s far as the 
canon,” he replied. He turned suddenly and kissed the 
Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame, and her trembling 
limbs rigid with amazement 

Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst It brought the 
storm again and the whirling snow. Then the Duchess, 
feeding the fire, found that some one had quietly piled 
beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days longer. The 
tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from Piney. 

The women slept but little. In the morning, looking 


The Outcasts of Poker Flat, 1 19 

Into each other’s faces, they read their fate. Neither spofe<;, 
but Piney, accepting the position of the stronger, drew near 
and placed her arm around the Duchess’s waist. They 
kept this attitude for the rest of the day. That night the 
storm reached its greatest fury, and, rending asunder the 
protecting pines, invaded the very hut. 

Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed 
the fire, which gradually died away. As the embers 
slowly blackened, the Duchess crept closer to Piney, 
and broke the silence of many hours : “ Piney, can you 
pray?” “No, dear,” said Piney, simply. The Duchess, 
without knowing exactly why, felt relieved, and, put- 
ting her head upon Piney’s shoulder, spoke no more. 
And so reclining, the younger and purer pillowing the 
head of her soiled sister upon her virgin breast, they fell 
asleep. 

The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery 
drifts of snow, shaken from the long pine-boughs, flew like 
white-winged birds, and settled about them as they slept. 
The moon through the rifted clouds looked down upon 
what had been the camp. But all human stain, all trace 
of earthly travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantle 
mercifully flung from above. 

They slept all that day and the next, nor did they waken 
when voices and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. 
And when pitying fingers brushed the snow from their 
wan faces, you could scarcely have told from the equal 
peace that dwelt upon them which was she that had 
$inned. Even the law of Poker Flat recognised this, 
and turned away, leaving them still locked in each other's 
arms. 

But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest pine 
frees, they found the deuce of clubs pinned to the bark with 


120 The Outcasts of Poker Flat. 

a bowie-knife. It bore the following, written in pencil in a 
firm hand : — 

t 

BENEATH THIS TREE 
LIES THE BODY 
OF 

JOHN OAKHURST, 

WHO STRUCK A STREAK OF BAD LUCK 
ON THE 23D OF NOVEMBER 1850, 

AND 

HANDED IN HIS CHECKS 
ON THE 7 TH DECEMBER 185a 

-I- 


And pulseless and cold, with a Derringer by his side and a 
bullet in his heart, though still calm as in life, beneath the 
snow lay he who was at once the strongest and yet the 
weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat. 


( ) 


We were eight including the driver. We had not spoken 
during the passage of the last six miles, since the jolting of 
the heavy vehicle over the roughening road had spoiled the 
Judge’s last poetical quotation. The tall man beside the 
Judge was asleep, his arm passed through the swaying strap 
and his head resting upon it, — altogether a limp, helpless 
looking object, as if he had hanged himself and been cut 
down too late. The French lady on the back seat was 
asleep too, yet in a half-conscious propriety of attitude, 
shown even in the disposition of the handkerchief which 
she held to her forehead and which partially veiled her face. 
The lady from Virginia City, travelling with her husband, 
had long since lost all individuality in a wild confusion of 
ribbons, veils, furs, and shawls. There was no sound but 
the rattling of wheels and the dash of rain upon the roof. 
Suddenly the stage stopped and we became dimly aware of 
voices. The driver was evidently in the midst of an excit- 
ing colloquy with some one in the road, — a colloquy of 
which such fragments as “bridge gone,” “twenty feet of 
water,” “ can’t pass,” were occasionally distinguishable above 
the storm. Then came a lull, and a mysterious voice from 
the road shouted the parting adjuration — 

“Try Miggles’s.” 

We caught a glimpse of our leaders as the vehicle slowly 
turned, of a horseman vanishing through the rain, and wo 
were evidently on our way to Miggles’s. 


122 Miggles 

Who and where was Miggles ? The Judge, our authority, 
did not remember the name, and he knew the country 
thoroughly. The Washoe traveller thought Miggles must 
keep a hotel. We only knew that we were stopped by high 
t^rater in front and rear, and that Miggles was our rock of 
refuge. A ten minutes’ splashing through a tangled byroad, 
scarcely wide enough for the stage, and we drew up before 
a barred and boarded gate in a wide stone wall or fence 
about eight feet high. Evidently Miggles’s, and evidently 
Miggles did not keep a hotel. 

The driver got down and tried the gate. It was securely 
locked. 

“ Miggles ! O Miggles ! ” 

No answer. 

“ Migg-ells ! You Miggles ! ” continued the driver, with 
rising wrath. 

Migglesy ! ” joined in the expressman persuasively. 
“O Miggy ! Mig 

But no reply came from the apparently insensate Miggles. 
The Judge, who had finally got the window down, put his 
head out and propounded a series of questions, which if 
answered categorically would have undoubtedly elucidated 
the whole mystery, but which the driver evaded by replying 
that “ if we didn’t want to sit in the coach all night we had 
better rise up and sing out for Miggles.” 

So we rose up and called on Miggles in chorus, then 
separately. And when we had finished, a Hibernian fellow- 
passenger from the roof called for “ Maygells ! ” whereat 
we all laughed. While we were laughing the driver cried 
“Shool” 

We listened. To our infinite amazement the chorus of 
** Miggles ” was repeated from the other side of the wall, 
even to the final and supplemental “Maygells.” 

“Extraordinary echo ! ” said the Judge. 


Higgles. 123 

“Extraordinary d — d skunk!” roared the driver, con- 
temptuously. “ Come out of that, Higgles, and show 
yourself ! Be a man, Higgles ! Don’t hide in the dark ; 
I wouldn’t if I were you. Higgles,” continued Yuba Bill, 
now dancing about in an excess of fury. 

“ Higgles I ” continued the voice, “ O Higgles ! ” 

“ Hy good man 1 Hr. Hyghail ! ” said the Judge, soften- 
ing the asperities of the name as much as possible. “ Con- 
sider the inhospitality of refusing shelter from the incle- 
mency of the weather to helpless females. Really, my dear 

sir ' But a succession of “ Higgles,” ending in a burst 

of laughter, drowned his voice. 

Yuba Bill hesitated no longer. Taking a heavy stone 
from the road, he' battered down the gate, and with .the 
expressman entered the enclosure. We followed. Nobody 
was to be seen. In the gathering darkness all that we 
could distinguish was that we were in a garden — from the 
rose-bushes that scattered over us a minute spray from 
their dripping leaves — and before a long, rambling wooden 
building. 

“ Do you know this Higgles?” asked the Judge of Yuba 
Bill 

“ No, nor don’t want to,” said Bill shortly, who felt the 
Pioneer Stage Company insulted in his person by the con- 
tumacious Higgles. 

But, my dear sir,” expostulated the Judge, as he thought 
of the barred gate. 

“ Lookee here,” said Yuba Bill, with fine irony, “ hadn’t 
you better go back and sit in the coach till yer intro- 
duced ? I’m going in,” and he pushed open the door of the 
building. 

A long room, lighted only by the embers of a fire that 
was dying on the large hearth at its farther extremity ; the 
walls curiously papered, and the flickering firelight bringing 


124 


Higgles, 

out its grotesque pattern ; somebody sitting in a large arm- 
chair by the fireplace. All this we saw as we crowded 
together into the room after the driver and expressman. 

“ Hello ! be you Higgles?” said Yuba Bill to the solitary 
occupant. 

The figure neither spoke nor stirred. Yuba Bill walked 
wrathfully toward it and turned the eye of his coach-lantern 
upon its face. It was a man’s face, prematurely old and 
wrinkled, with very large eyes, in which there was that 
expression of perfectly gratuitous solemnity which I had 
sometimes seen in an owl’s. The large eyes wandered 
from Bill’s face to the lantern, and finally fixed their gaze 
on that luminous object without further recognition. 

Bill restrained himself with an effort. 

“ Higgles ! be you deaf? You ain’t dumb anyhow, you 
know ? ” and Yuba Bill shook the insensate figure by the 
shoulder. 

To our great dismay, as Bill removed his hand, the 
venerable stranger apparently collapsed, sinking into half 
his size and an undistinguishable heap of clothing. 

“ Well, dern my skin,” said Bill, looking appealingly at 
us, and hopelessly retiring from the contest. 

The Judge now stepped forward, and we lifted the 
mysterious invertebrate back into his original position. 
Bill was dismissed with the lantern to reconnoitre outside, 
for it was evident that, from the helplessness of this solitary 
man, there must be attendants near at hand, and we all 
drew around the fire. The Judge, who had regained his 
authority, and had never lost his conversational amiability, 
— standing before us with his back to the hearth, — charged 
us, as an imaginary jury, as follows : — 

“ It is evident that either our distinguished friend here 
has reached that condition described by Shakespeare as 
' the sere and yellow leaf,’ or has suffered some prematuif 


Higgles, 125 

abatement of his mental and physical faculties. Whether 

he is really the Miggles ” 

Here he was interrupted by “ Miggles ! O Miggles I 
Migglesy ! Mig ! ” and, in fact, the whole chorus of Miggles 
in very much the same key as it had once before beon 
delivered unto us. 

We gazed at each other for a moment in some alarm. 
The Judge, in particular, vacated his position quickly, as 
the voice seemed to come directly over his shoulder. The 
cause, however, was soon discovered in a large magpie who 
was perched upon a shelf over the fireplace, and who imme- 
diately relapsed into a sepulchral silence, which contrasted 
singularly with his previous volubility. It was, undoubtedly, 
his voice which we had heard in the road, and our friend 
in the chair was not responsible for the discourtesy. Yuba 
Bill, who re-entered the room after an unsuccessful search, 
was loath to accept the explanation, and still eyed the help- 
less sitter with suspicion. He had found a shed in which 
he had put up his horses, but he came back dripping and 
sceptical. “ Thar ain’t nobody but him within ten mile of 
the shanty, and that ’ar d — d old skeesicks knows it.” 

But the faith of the majority proved to be securely based. 
Bill had scarcely ceased growling before we heard a quick 
step upon the porch, the trailing of a wet skirt, the door 
was flung open, and with a flash of white teeth, a sparkle 
of dark eyes, and an utter absence of ceremony or diffi- 
dence, a young woman entered, shut the door, and, pant- 
ing, leaned back against it. 

Oh, if you please, I’m Miggles ! ” 

And this was Miggles ! this bright-eyed, full-throated 
young woman, whose wet gown of coarse blue stuff could 
not hide the beauty of the feminine curves to which it 
clung ; from the chestnut crown of whose head, topped by 
a man’s oil-skin sou’wester, to the little feet and ankles, 


126 


Miggles. 

hidden somewhere in the recesses of her boy’s brogans, all 
was grace; — this was Miggles, laughing at us, too, in the 
most airy, frank, offhand manner imaginable. 

“You see, boys,” said she, quite out of breath, and 
holding one little hand against her side, quite unheeding 
the speechless discomfiture of our party or the complete 
demoralisation of Yuba Bill, whose features had relaxed 
into an expression of gratuitous and imbecile cheerfulness, 
— “ You see, boys, I was mor’n two miles away when you 
passed down the road. I thought you might pull up here, 
and so I ran the whole way, knowing nobody was home 
but Jim, — and — and — I’m out of breath — ^and — that lets 
me out” 

And here Miggles caught her dripping oil-skin hat from 
her head, with a mischievous swirl that scattered a shower of 
raindrops over us ; attempted to put back her hair ; dropped 
two hair-pins in the attempt ; laughed, and sat down beside 
Yuba Bill, with her hands crossed lightly on her lap. 

The Judge recovered himself first and essayed an extra- 
vagant compliment. 

“ I’ll trouble you for that har-pin,” said Miggles gravely. 
Half-a-dozen hands were eagerly stretched forward ; the 
missing hair-pin was restored to its fair owner ; and Miggles, 
crossing the room, looked keenly in the face of the invalid. 
The solemn eyes looked back at hers with an expression we 
had never seen before. Life and intelligence seemed to 
struggle back into the rugged face. Miggles laughed again, 
— it was a singularly eloquent laugh, — and turned her black 
eyes and white teeth once more towards us. 

“ This afflicted person is” hesitated the Judge. 

“Jim !” said Miggles. 

“Your father?” 

“No I” 

“Brother?” 


Higgles. 


127 


“Nor 

“ Husband?” 

Higgles darted a quick, half-defiant glance at the two 
lady passengers, who I had noticed did not participate in 
the general masculine admiration of Higgles, and said, 
gravely, “ No ; it’s Jim ! ” 

There was an awkward pause. The lady passengers 
moved closer to each other ; the Washoe husband looked 
abstractedly at the fire, and the tall man apparently turned 
his eyes inward for self-support at this emergency. But 
Higgles’s laugh, which was very infectious, broke the silence. 

“ Come,” she said briskly, “ you must be hungry. Who’ll 
bear a hand to help me get tea ? ” 

She had no lack of volunteers. In a few moments Yuba 
Bill was engaged like Caliban in bearing logs for this Hir- 
anda ; the expressman was grinding coffee on the veranda ; 
to myself the arduous duty of slicing bacon was assigned ; 
and the Judge lent each man his good-humoured and 
voluble counsel. And when Higgles, assisted by the Judge 
and our Hibernian “ deck-passenger,” set the table with all 
the available crockery, we had become quite joyous, in spite 
of the rain that beat against windows, the wind that whirled 
down the chimney, the two ladies who whispered together 
in the corner, or the magpie, who uttered a satirical and 
croaking commentary on their conversation from his perch 
above. In the now bright, blazing fire we could see that 
the walls were papered with illustrated journals, arranged 
with feminine taste and discrimination. The furniture was 
extemporised and adapted from candle-boxes and packing- 
cases, and covered with gay calico or the skin of some 
animal. The arm-chair of the helpless Jim was an ingenious 
variation of a flour-barrel. There was neatness, and even a 
taste for the picturesque, to be seen in the few details of 
the long low room. 


128 


Higgles. 

The meal was a culinary success. But more, it was a 
social triumph, — chiefly, I think, owing to the rare tact of 
Higgles in guiding the conversation, asking all the questions 
herself, yet bearing throughout a frankness that rejected the 
idea of any concealment on her own part, so that we talked 
of ourselves, of our prospects, of the journey, of the weather, 
of each other, — of everything but our host and hostess. It 
must be confessed that Miggles’s conversation was never 
elegant, rarely grammatical, and that at times she employed 
expletives the use of which had generally been yielded to 
our sex. But they were delivered with such a lighting up 
of teeth and eyes, and were usually followed by a laugh — a 
laugh peculiar to Higgles — so frank and honest that it 
seemed to clear the moral atmosphere. 

Once during the meal we heard a noise like the rubbing 
of a heavy body against the outer walls of the house. This 
was shortly followed by a scratching and sniffling at the 
door. “That’s Joaquin,” said Higgles, in reply to our 
questioning glances ; “ would you like to see him ? ” Before 
we could answer she had opened the door, and disclosed 
a half-grown grizzly, who instantly raised himself on his 
haunches, with his fore-paws hanging down in the popular 
attitude of mendicancy, and looked admiringly at Higgles, 
with a very singular resemblance in his manner to Yuba Bill. 
“ That’s my watch-dog,” said Higgles, in explanation. “ Oh, 
he don’t bite,” she added, as the two lady-passengers flut- 
tered into a corner. “Does he, old Toppy?” (the latter 
remark being addressed directly to 'the sagacious Joaquin). 
“ I tell you what, boys,” continued Higgles, after she had 
fed and closed the door on Ursa Afmor, “ you were in big 
Uick that Joaquin wasn’t hanging round when you dropped 
in to-night.” “Where was he?” asked the Judge. “With 
me,” said Higgles. “ Lord love you ! he trots round witk 
me nights like as if he was a man.” 


129 


Higgles, 

We were silent for a few moments, and listened to the 
wind. Perhaps we all had the same picture before us, — of 
Higgles walking through the rainy woods with her savage 
guardian at her side. The Judge, I remember, said some- 
thing about Una and her lion ; but Higgles received it, as 
she did other compliments, with quiet gravity. Whether 
she was altogether unconscious of the admiration she excited, 
— she could hardly have been oblivious of Yuba Bill’s ador- 
ation, — I know not ; but her very frankness suggested a 
perfect sexual equality that was cruelly humiliating to the 
younger members of our party. 

The incident of the bear did not add anything in 
Miggles’s favour to the opinions of those of her own sex 
who were present. In fact, the repast over, a chillness 
radiated from the two lady passengers that no pine-boughs 
brought in by Yuba Bill and cast as a sacrifice upon the 
hearth could wholly overcome. Higgles felt it ; and sud- 
denly declaring that it was time to “turn in,” offered to 
show the ladies to their bed in an adjoining room. “ You, 
boys, will have to camp out here by the fire as well as you 
can,” she added, “ for thar ain’t but the one room.” 

Our sex — by which, my dear sir, I allude of course to the 
stronger portion of humanity — has been generally relieved 
from the imputation of curiosity or a fondness for gossip. 
Yet I am constrained to say, that hardly had the door 
closed on Higgles than we crowded together, whispering, 
snickering, smiling, and exchanging . suspicions, surmises, 
and a thousand speculations in regard to our pretty hostess 
and her singular companion. I fear that we even hustled 
that imbecile paralytic, who sat like a voiceless Hemnon in 
our midst, gazing with the serene indifference of the Past 
in his passionless eyes upon our wordy counsels. In the 
midst of an exciting discussion the door opened again aud 
Higgles re-entered. 

VOL. XL 


I 


130 


Higgles. 

But not, apparently, the same Higgles who a few hours 
before had flashed upon us. Her eyes were downcast, and 
as she hesitated for a moment on the threshold, with a 
blanket on her arm, she seemed to have left behind her the 
frank fearlessness which had charmed us a moment before. 
Coming into the room, she drew a low stool beside the 
paralytic’s chair, sat down, drew the blanket over her 
shoulders, and saying, “ If it’s all the same to you, boys, as 
we’re rather crowded. I’ll stop here to-night,” took the 
invalid’s withered hand in her own, and turned her eyes 
upon the dying fire. An instinctive feeling that this was 
oply premonitory to more confidential relations, and per- 
haps some shame at our previous curiosity, kept us silent. 
The rain still beat upon the roof, wandering gusts of wind 
stirred the embers into momentary brightness, until, in a 
lull of the elements, Higgles suddenly lifted up her head, 
and, throwing her hair over her shoulder, turned her face 
upon the group and asked — 

“ Is there any of you that knows me ? ” 

There was no reply. 

“Think again ! I lived at Harysville in ’53. Everybody 
knew me there, and everybody had the right to know me. 
I kept the Polka Saloon until I came to live with Jim. 
That’s six years ago. Perhaps I’ve changed some.” 

The absence of recognition may have disconcerted her. 
She turned her head to the fire again, and it was some 
seconds before she again spoke, and then more rapidly — 

“ Well, you see I thought some of you must have known 
me. There’s no great harm done anyway. What I was 
going to say was this : Jim here ” — she took his hand in 
both of hers as she- spoke — “used to know me, if you 
didn’t, and spent a heap of money upon me. I reckon he 
spent all he had. And one day — it’s six years ago this 
winter — Jim came into my back-room, sat down on my 


Miggtes. 1 3 1 

■ofy, like as you see him in that chair, and never moved 
again without help. He was struck all of a heap, and never 
seemed to know what ailed him. The doctors came and 
said as how it was caused all along of his way of life, — for 
Jim was mighty free and wild like, — and that he would 
never get better, and couldn’t last long anyway. They 
advised me to send him to Frisco to the hospital, for he 
was no good to any one and would be a baby all his life. 
Perhaps it was something in Jim’s eye, perhaps it was that 
I never had a baby, but I said ‘ No.’ I was rich then, for 
I was popular with everybody, — gentlemen like yourself, 
sir, came to see me, — and I sold out my business and 
bought this yer place, because it was sort of out of the way 
of travel, you see, and I brought my baby here.” 

With a woman’s intuitive tact and poetry, she had, as she 
spoke, slowly shifted her position so as to bring the mute 
figure of the ruined man between her and her audience, 
hiding in the shadow behind it, as if she offered it as a tacit 
apology for her actions. Silent and expressionless, it yet 
spoke for her; helpless, crushed, and smitten with the 
Divine thunderbolt, it still stretched an invisible arm around 
her. 

Hidden in the darkness, but still holding his hand, she 
went on — 

“ It was a long time before I could get the hang of things 
about yer, for I was used to company and excitement. I 
couldn’t get any woman to help me, and a man I dursn’t 
trust ; but what with the Indians hereabout, who’d do odd 
jobs for me, and having everything sent from the North 
Fork, Jim and I managed to worry through. The Doctor 
would run up from Sacramento once in a while. He’d ask 
to see ‘ Miggles’s baby,’ as he called Jim, and when he’d 
go away, he’d say, ‘Higgles, you’re a trump, — God bless 
you * and it didn’t seem so lonely after that. But the las» 


T 32 Higgles, 

time he was here he said, as he opened the door to go, * Do 
you know, Miggles, your baby will grow up to be a man yet 
and an honour to his mother ; but not here, Miggles, not 

here ! ’ And I thought he went away sad, — and — and ” 

and here Miggles’s voice and head were somehow both lost 
completely in the shadow. 

‘‘ The folks about here are very kind,” said Miggles, after 
a pause, coming a little into the light again. “ Th5 men 
from the Fork used to hang around here, until they found 
they wasn’t wanted, and the women are kind, and don’t 
call. I was pretty lonely until I picked up Joaquin in the 
woods yonder one day, when he wasn’t so high, and taught 
him to beg for his dinner ; and then thar’s Polly — that’s the 
magpie — she knows no end of tricks, and makes it quite 
sociable of evenings with her talk, and so 1 don’t feel like 
as I was the only living being about the ranch. And Jim 
here,” said Miggles, with her old laugh again, and coming 
out quite into the firelight, “Jim — why, boys, you would 
admire to see how much he knows for a man like him. 
Sometimes I bring him flowers, and he looks at ’em just as 
natural as if he knew ’em ; and times, when we’re sitting 
alone, I read him those things on the wall Why, Lord ! ” 
said Miggles, with her frank laugh, “I’ve read him that 
whole side of the house this winter. There never was such 
a man for reading as Jim.” 

“Why,” asked the Judge, “do you not marry this man 
to whom you have devoted your youthful life ? ” 

“Well, you see,” said Miggles, “it would be playing it 
rather low down on Jim to take advantage of his being 
so helpless. And then, too, if we were man and wife, now, 
we’d both know that I was bound to do what I do now of 
my own accord.” 

“ But you are young yet and attractive ” 

“It’s getting late,” said Miggles, gravely, “and you’d 


Higgles. 133 

better all turn ia Good-night, boys;” and throwing the 
blanket over her head, Higgles laid herself down beside 
Jim’s chair, her head pillowed on the low stool that held his 
feet, and spoke no more. The fire slowly faded from the 
hearth ; we each sought our blankets in silence ; and pre- 
sently there was no sound in the long room but the patter- 
ing of the rain upon the roof and the heavy breathing of 
the sleepers. 

It was nearly morning when I awoke from a troubled 
dream. The storm had passed, the stars were shining, and 
through the shutterless window the full moon, lifting itself 
over the solemn pines without, looked into the room. It 
touched the lonely figure in the chair with an infinite com- 
passion, and seemed to baptize with a shining flood the 
lowly head of the woman whose hair, as in the sweet old 
story, bathed the feet of him she loved. It even lent a 
kindly poetry to the rugged outline of Yuba Bill, half re- 
clining on his elbow between them and his passengers, with 
savagely patient eyes keeping watch and ward. And then 
I fell asleep and only woke at broad day, with Yuba Bill 
standing over me, and ‘‘All aboard” ringing in my ears. 

Coffee was waiting for us on the table, but Higgles was 
gone. We wandered about the house and lingered long 
after the horses were harnessed, but she did not return. 
It was evident that she wished to avoid a formal leave- 
taking, and had so left us to depart as we had come. 
After we had helped the ladies into the coach, we returned 
to the house and solemnly shook hands with the paralytic 
Jim, as solemnly settling him back into position after each 
hand-shake. Then we looked for the last time around the 
long low room, at the stool where Higgles had sat, and 
slowly took our seats in the waiting coach. The whip 
cracked, and we were off ! 

But as we reached the highroad. Bill’s dexterous hand 


134 Higgles. 

laid the six horses back on their haunches, and the stage 
stopped with a jerk. For there, on a little eminence beside 
the road, stood Higgles, her hair flying, her eyes sparkling, 
her white handkerchief waving, and her white teeth flashing 
a last “good-bye.” We waved our hats in return. And 
then Yuba Bill, as if fearful of further fascination, madly 
lashed. his horses forward, and we sank back in our seats. 
We exchanged not a word until we reached the North 
Fork and the stage drew up at the Independence House. 
Then, the Judge leading, we walked into the bar-room and 
took our places gravely at the bar. 

“Are your glasses charged, gentlemen?” ,said the Judge, 
solemnly taking off his white hat 
They were. 

“ Well, then, here’s to Higgles — God bless uzr P 
Perhaps He had. Who knows ? 


Ccnnejtisee’iff partner. 


I DO not think that we ever knew his real name. Ouf 
ignorance of it certainly never gave us any social inconveni- 
ence, for at Sandy Bar in 1854 most men were christened 
anew. Sometimes these appellatives were derived from 
some distinctiveness of dress, as in the case of “ Dungaree 
Jack;” or from some peculiarity of habit, as shown in 
“Saleratus Bill,” so called from an undue proportion of 
that chemical in his daily bread; or from some unlucky 
slip, as exhibited in “ The Iron Pirate,” a mild, inoffensive 
man, who earned that baleful title by his unfortunate 
mispronunciation of the term “iron pyrites.” Perhaps 
this may have been the beginning of a rude heraldry ; but 
I am constrained to think that it was because a man’s real 
name in that day rested solely upon his own unsupported 
statement “ Call yourself Clifford, do you ? ” said Boston, 
addressing a timid newcomer with infinite scorn; “hell 
is full of such Cliffords ! ” He then introduced the unfor- 
tunate man, whose name happened to be really Clifford, 
as “Jaybird Charley,” — an unhallowed inspiration of the 
moment that clung to him ever after. 

But to return to Tennessee’s Partner, whom we never 
knew by any other than this relative title. That he had ever 
existed as a separate and distinct individuality we only 
learned later. It seems that in 1853 he left Poker Flat 
to go to San Francisco, ostensibly to procure a wife. H« 


Tennessee s Partner, 


136 

never got any farther- than Stocktoa At that place* he was 
attracted by a young person who waited upon the table at 
the hotel where he took his meals. One morning he said 
something to her which caused her to smile not unkindly, 
to somewhat coquettishly break a plate of toast over his 
upturned, serious, simple face, and to retreat to the kitchea 
He followed her, and emerged a few moments later, 
covered with more toast and victory. That day week they 
were married by a Justice of the Peace, and returned to 
Poker Flat. I am aware that something more might be 
made of this episode, but I prefer to tell it as it was current 
at Sandy Bar, — in the gulches and bar-rooms, — where all 
sentiment was modified by a strong sense of humour. 

Of their married felicity but little is known, perhaps for 
the reason that Tennessee, then living with his partner, 
one day took occasion to say something to the bride on his 
own account, at which, it is said, she smiled not unkindly 
and chastely -retreated, — this time as far as Marysville, 
where Tennessee followed her, and where they went to 
housekeeping without the aid of a Justice of the Peace. 
Tennessee’s Partner took the loss of his wife simply and 
seriously, as was his fashion. But to everybody’s surprise, 
when Tennessee one day returned from Marysville, without 
his partner’s wife, — she having smiled and retreated with 
somebody else, — Tennessee’s Partner was the first man to 
shake his hand and greet him with affection. The boys 
who had gathered in the canon to see the shooting were 
naturally indignant. Their indignation might have found 
vent in sarcasm but for a certain look in Tennessee’s 
Partner’s eye that indicated a lack of humorous apprecia- 
tion. In fact, he was a grave man, with a steady applica- 
tion to practical detail which was unpleasant in a difficulty. 

Meanwhile a popular feeling against Tennessee had grown 
up on the Bar. He was known to be a gambler ; he was 


Tennessee s ParUier, 


137 


iuspected to be a thief. In these suspicions Tennessee’s 
Partner was equally compromised \ his continued intimacy 
with Tennessee after the affair above quoted could only be 
accounted for on the hypothesis of a copartnership of crime. 
At last Tennessee’s guilt became flagrant. One day he 
overtook a stranger on his way to Red Dog. The stranger 
afterward related that Tennessee beguiled the time with 
interesting anecdote and reminiscence, but illogically con- 
cluded the interview in the following words : “ And now, 
young man, I’ll trouble you for your knife, your pistols, and 
your money. You see your weppings might get you into 
trouble at Red Dog, and your money’s a temptation to the 
evilly disposed. I think you said your address was San 
Francisco. I shall endeavour to call.” It may be stated 
here that Tennessee had a fine flow of humour, which no 
business preoccupation could wholly subdue. 

This exploit was his last. Red Dog and Sandy Bar 
made common cause against the highwayman.. Tennessee 
was hunted in very much the same fashion as his prototype, 
the grizzly. As the toils closed around him, he made a 
desperate dash through the Bar, emptying his revolver at 
the crowd before the Arcade Saloon, and so on up Grizzly 
Canon ; but at its farther extremity he was stopped by a 
small man on a grey horse. The men looked at each other 
a moment in silence. Both were fearless, both self-pos- 
sessed and independent, and both types of a civilisation 
that in the seventeenth century would have been called 
heroic, but in the nineteenth simply “reckless.” “What 
have you got there? — I call,” said Tennessee quietly. 
“Two bowers and an ace,’’ said the stranger as quietly, 
showing two revolvers and a bowie-knife. “That takes 
me,” returned Tennessee ; and, with this gambler’s epigram, 
be threw away his useless pistol and rode back with hit 
captor. 


Tennessee's Partner, 


138 

It was a warm night The cool breeze which usually 
•prang up with the going down of the sun behind the 
ct^aJfarral-CTQSted mountain was that evening withheld from 
Sandy Bar. The little canon was stifling with heated 
resinous odours, and the decaying driftwood on the Bar sent 
forth faint sickening exhalations. The feverishness of day 
and its fierce passions still filled the camp. Lights moved 
restlessly along the bank of the river, striking no answering 
reflection from its tawny current. Against the blackness of 
the pines the windows of the old loft above the express- 
office stood out staringly bright ; and through their curtain- 
less panes the loungers below could see the forms of those 
who were even then deciding the fate of Tennessee. And 
above all this, etched on the dark firmament, rose the 
Sierra, remote and passionless, crowned with remoter pas- 
sionless stars. 

The trial of Tennessee was conducted as fairly as was 
consistent with a judge and jury who felt themselves to 
some extent obliged to justify, in their verdict, the previous 
irregularities of arrest and indictment. The law of Sandy 
Bar was implacable but not vengeful. The excitement and 
personal feeling of the chase were over ; with Tennessee 
safe in their hands, they were ready to listen patiently to 
any defence, which they were already satisfied was insuffi- 
cient. There being no doubt in their own minds, they 
were willing to give the prisoner the benefit of any that 
might exist Secure in the hypothesis that he ought to be 
hanged on general principles, they indulged him with more 
latitude of defence than his reckless hardihood seemed to 
ask. The Judge appeared to be more anxious than the 
prisoner, who, otherwise unconcerned, evidently took a 
grim pleasure in the responsibility he had created. “ I 
don’t take any hand in this yer game,” had been his invari- 
able but good-humoured reply to all questions. The Judge 


Tennessee s Partner. 


139 


—who was also his captor — for a moment vaguely regretted 
that he had not shot him “ on sight ” that morning, but 
presently dismissed this human weakness as unworthy of 
the judicial mind. Nevertheless, when there was a tap at 
the door, and it was said that Tennessee’s Partner was there 
on behalf of the prisoner, he was admitted at once without 
question. Perhaps the younger members of the jury, to 
whom the proceedings were becoming irksomely thought- 
ful, hailed him as a relief. 

For he was not, certainly, an imposing figure. Short and 
stout, with a square face, sunburned into a preternatural 
redness, clad in a loose duck “jumper” and trousers 
streaked and splashed with red soil, his aspect under any 
circumstances would have been quaint, and was now even 
ridiculous. As he stooped to deposit at his feet a heavy 
carpet-bag he was carrying, it became obvious, from partially 
developed legends and inscriptions, that the material with 
which his trousers had been patched had been originally in- 
tended for a less ambitious covering. Yet he advanced with 
great gravity, and after shaking the hand of each person in 
the room with laboured cordiality, he wiped his serious per- 
plexed face on a red bandanna handkerchief, a shade lighter 
than his complexion, laid his powerful hand upon the table 
to steady himself, and thus addressed the Judge : — 

“ I was passin’ by,” he began, by way of apology, “ and 
I thought I’d just step in and see how things was gittin’ on 
with Tennessee thar, — my pardner. It’s a hot night. I 
disremember any sich weather before on the Bar.” 

He paused a moment, but nobody volunteering any other 
Lieteorological recollection, he again had recourse to his 
pocket-handkerchief, and for some moments mopped his 
face diligently. 

“ Have you anything to say on behalf of the prisoner/' 
laid the Judge finally. 


140 


Tennessee's Partner. 


“ Thet’s it,” said Tennessee's Partner, in a tone of relief. 
“ I come yar as Tennessee’s pardner, — knowing him nigh 
on four year, off and on, wet and dry, in luck and out o* 
luck. His ways ain’t aller my ways, but thar ain’t any 
p’ints in that young man, thar ain’t any liveliness as he^s 
been up to, as I don’t know. And you sez to me, sez you, 
-^-confidential-like, and between man and man, — sez you, 
‘Do you know anything in his behalf?’ and I sez to you, 
sez I — confidential like, as between man and man, — ‘ What 
should a man know of his pardner ? ’ ” 

“ Is this all you have to say ? ” asked the Judge impa- 
tiently, feeling, perhaps, that a dangerous sympathy of 
humour was beginning to humanise the court. 

“Thet’s so,” continued Tennessee’s Partner. “It ain’t 
for me to say anything agin’ him. And now, what’s the 
case ? Here’s Tennessee wants money, wants it bad, and 
doesn’t like to ask it of his old pardner. Well, what does 
Tennessee do ? He lays for a stranger and he fetches that 
stranger ; and you lays for him and you fetches him ; and 
the honours is easy. And I put it to you, bein’ a far-minded 
man, and to you, gentlemen all, as far-minded men, ef this 
isn’t so.” 

“Prisoner,” said the Judge, interrupting, “have you any 
questions to ask this man ? ” 

“No! no!” continued Tennessee’s Partner hastily. “I 
play this yer hand alone. To come down to the bed-rock, 
.t’s just this: Tennessee, thar, has played it pretty rough 
and expensive-like on a stranger, and on this yer camp. 
And now, what’s the fair thing? Some would say more, 
some would say less. Here’s seventeen hundred dollars in 
coarse gold and a watch, — it’s about all my pile, — and call 
it square 1 ” And before a hand could be raised to prevent 
him, he had emptied the contents of the carpet-bag upon 
the table. 


Tennessee s Partner, 


141 

For a moment his life was in jeopardy. One or two men 
sprang to their feet, several hands groped for hidden 
weapons, and a suggestion to “ throw him from the 
window” was only overridden by a gesture from the Judge. 
Tennessee laughed. And apparently oblivious of the ex- 
citement, Tennessee’s Partner improved the opportunity to 
mop his face again with his handkerchief. 

When order was restored, and the man was made to 
understand, by the use of forcible figures and rhetoric, that 
Tennessee’s offence could not be condoned by money, his 
face took a more serious and sanguinary hue, and those 
who were nearest to him noticed that his rough hand 
trembled slightly on the table. He hesitated a moment as 
he slowly returned the gold to the carpet-bag, as if he had 
not yet entirely caught the elevated sense of justice which 
swayed the tribunal, and was perplexed with the belief that 
he had not offered enough. Then he turned to the Judge, 
and saying, “This yer is a lone hand, played alone, and 
without my pardner,” he bowed to the jury and was about 
to withdraw, when the Judge called him back. “If you 
have anything to say to Tennessee, you had better say it 
now.” For the first time that evening the eyes of toe 
prisoner and his strange advocate met. Tennessee smiled, 
showed his white teeth, and saying, “Euchred, old man!” 
held out his hand. Tennessee’s Partner took it in his own, 
and saying, “ I just dropped in as I was passin’ to see how 
things was gettin’ on,” let the hand passively fall, and add- 
ing that “it was a warm night,” again mopped his face with 
his handkerchief, and without another word withdrew. 

The two men never again met each other alive. For the 
unparalleled insuit of a bribe offered to Judge Lynch — who, 
whether bigoted, weak, or narrow, was at least incorruptible 
--firmly fixed in the mind of that mythical personage any 
wavering determination of Tennessee’s fate; and at the 


Tennessee's Partner, 


£42 

break of day he was marched, closely guarded, to meet if 
at the top of Marley’s Hill. 

How he met it, how cool he was, how he refused to say 
anything, how perfect were the arrangements of the com- 
mittee, were all duly reported, with the addition of a warn- 
ing moral and example to all future evildoers, in the Red 
Dog Clarion by its editor, who was present, and to whose 
vigorous English I cheerfully refer the reader. But the 
beauty of that midsummer morning, the blessed amity of 
earth and air and sky, the awakened life of the free woods 
and hills, the joyous renewal and promise of Nature, and 
above all, the infinite serenity that thrilled through each, 
was not reported, as not being a part of the social lesson. 
And yet, when the weak and foolish deed was done, and a 
life, with its possibilities and responsibilities, had passed 
out of the misshapen thing that dangled between earth and 
sky, the birds sang, the flowers bloomed, the sun shone, as 
cheerily as before ; and possibly the Red Dog Clarion was 
right 

Tennessee’s Partner was not in the group that surrounded 
the ominous tree. But as they turned to disperse, atten- 
tion was drawn to the singular appearance of a motionless 
donkey-cart halted at the side of the road. As they 
approached, they at once recognised the venerable “Jenny” 
and the two-wheeled cart as the property of Tennessee’s 
Partner, used by him in carrying dirt from his claim ; and 
a few paces distant the owner of the equipage himself, 
fitting under a buckeye-tree, wiping, the perspiration from 
his glowing face. In answer to an inquiry, he said he had 
come for the body of the “ diseased,” “ if it was all the same 
to the committee.” He didn’t wish to “ hurry anything ; ” 
ne could “wait.” He was not working that day; and 
when the gentlemen were done with the “diseased,” he 
would take him. “ Ef thar is any present,” he added, in 


Tennessee's Partner. 


143 


his simple, serious way, ‘‘as would care to jine in the fun’l, 
they kin come.” Perhaps it was from a sense of humour, 
which I have already intimated was a feature of Sandy Bar, 
— perhaps it was from something even better than that, but 
two-thirds of the loungers accepted the invitation at once. 

It was noon when the body of Tennessee was delivered 
into the hands of his partner. As the cart drew up to the 
fatal tree, we noticed that it contained a rough oblong box, 
— apparently made from a section of sluicing, — and half 
filled with bark and the tassels of pine. The cart was 
further decorated with slips of willow and made fragrant 
with buckeye-blossoms. When the body was deposited in 
the box, Tennessee’s Partner drew over it a piece of tarred 
canvas, and gravely mounting the narrow seat in front, with 
his feet upon the shafts, urged the little donkey forward. 
The equipage moved slowly on, at that decorous pace which 
was habitual with “Jenny” even under less solemn circum- 
stances. The men — half curiously, half jestingly, but all 
good-humouredly — strolled along beside the cart, some in 
advance, some a little in the rear of the homely catafalque. 
But whether from the narrowing of the road or some pre- 
sent sense of decorum, as the cart passed on the company 
fell to the rear in couples, keeping step, and otherwise 
assuming the external show of a formal procession. Jack 
Folinsbee, who had at the outset played a funeral march in 
dumb show upon an imaginary trombone, desisted from a 
lack of sympathy and appreciation, — not having, perhaps, 
your true humourist’s capacity to be content with the enjoy- 
ment of his own fun. 

The way led through Grizzly Canon, by this time 
clothed in funereal drapery and shadows. The redwoods, 
burying their moccasined feet in the red soil, stood in 
Indian-file along the track, trailing an uncouth benediction 
from their bending boughs upon the passing bier. A harc^ 


144 


Tennesssee's Partner, 


surprised into helpless inactivity, sat upright and pulsating 
in the ferns by the roadside as the cortege went by. 
Squirrels hastened to gain a secure outlook from higher 
boughs; and the blue-jays, spreading their wings, fluttered 
before them like outriders, until the outskirts of Sandy Bar 
were reached, and the solitary cabin of Tennessee’s Partner, 

Viewed under more favourable circumstances, it would 
not have been a cheerful place. The unpicturesque site, 
the rude and unlovely outlines, the unsavoury details, which 
distinguish the nest-building of the California miner, were 
all here with the dreariness of decay superadded. A few 
paces from the cabin there was a rough enclosure, which, 
in the brief days of Tennessee’s Partner’s matrimonial 
felicity, had been used as a garden, but was now overgrown 
with fern. As we approached it, we were surprised to find 
that what we had taken for a recent attempt at cultivation 
was the broken soil about an open grave. 

The cart was halted before the enclosure, and rejecting 
the offers of assistance with the same air of simple self- 
reliance he had displayed throughout, Tennessee’s Partner 
lifted the rough coffin on his back, and deposited it unaided 
within the shallow grave. He then nailed down the board 
which served as a lid, and mounting the little mound of 
earth beside it, took off his hat and slowly mopped his face 
with his handkerchief. This the crowd felt was a prelimi- 
nary to speech, and they disposed themselves variously on 
stumps and boulders, and sat expectant. 

^ “When a man,” began Tennessee’s Partner slowly, “haji 
been running free all day, what’s the natural thing for him 
to do ? Why, to come home. And if he ain’t in a condi • 
kion to go home, what can his best friend do ? Why, bring 
him home. And here’s Tennessee has been running free, 
and we brings him home from his wandering.” He paused 
and picked up a fragment of quartz, rubbed it thoughtfully 


Tennessee's Partner, 


145 


on his sleeve, and went on : “ It ain’t the first time that 
I’ve packed him on my back, as you see’d me now. It 
ain’t the first time that I brought him to this yer cabin when 
he couldn’t help himself ; it ain’t the first time that I and 
‘Jinny’ have waited for him on yon hill, and picked him 
up and so fetched him home, when he couldn’t speak and 
didn’t know me. And now that it’s the last time, why - 
he paused and rubbed the quartz gently on his sleeve— 
“you see it’s sort of rough on his pardner. And now, 
gentlemen,” he added abruptly, picking up his long-handled 
shovel, “the fun’l’s over; and my thanks, and Tennessee’s 
thanks, to you for your trouble.” 

Resisting any proffers of assistance, he began to fill in 
the grave, turning his back upon the crowd, that after a few 
moments’ hesitation gradually withdrew. As they crossed 
the little ridge that hid Sandy Bar from view, some, looking 
back, thought they could see Tennessee’s Partner, his work 
done, sitting upon the grave, his shovel between his knees, 
and his face buried in his red bandanna handkerchief. But 
it was argued by others that you couldn’t tell his face from 
his handkerchief at that distance, and this point remained 
undecided. 

In the reaction that followed the feverish excitement of 
that day, Tennessee’s Partner was not forgotten. A secret 
investigation had cleared him of any complicity in Tennes- 
see’s guilt, and left only a suspicion of his general sanity 
Sandy Bar made a point of calling on him, and proffering 
various uncouth but well-meant kindnesses. But from that 
day his rude health and great strength seemed visibly to 
decline ; and when the rainy season fairly set in, and the 
tiny grass-blades were beginning to peep from the rocky 
mound above Tennessee’s grave, he took to his bed. 

One night, when the pines beside the cabin were swaying 
m the storm and trailing their slender fingers over the roof, 

VOL II. K 


146 


Tennessee s Partner, 


and the roar and rush of the swollen river were heard below, 
Tennessee’s Partner lifted his head from the pillow, saying, 
“ It is time to go for Tennessee ; I must put ‘ Jinny,’ in the 
cart ; ” and would have risen from his bed but for the 
restraint of his attendant. Struggling, he still pursued his 
singular fancy : “ There, now, steady, ‘ Jinny,’ — steady, old 
girl. How dark it is ! Look out for the ruts, — and look 
out for him, too, old gal. Sometimes, you know, when he’s 
blind drunk, he drops down right in the trail. Keep op 
straight up to the pine on the top of the hill. Thar ! I told 
you so ! — thar he is, — coming this way, too, — all by him- 
self, sober, and his face a-shining. Tennessee.' Pardncrl” 
And so they met ^ 


( *47 ) 


Cfie Itigt of Keti CPuIcf). 

Sandy was very drunk. He was lying under an azalea 
bush, in pretty much the same attitude in which he had 
fallen some hours before. How long he had been lying 
there he could not tell, and didn’t care ; how long he 
should lie there was a matter equally indefinite and uncon- 
sidered. A tranquil philosophy, born of his physical con- 
dition, suffused and saturated his moral being. 

The spectacle of a drunken man, and of this drunken 
man in particular, was not, I grieve to say, of sufficient 
novelty in Red Gulch to attract attention. Earlier in the 
day some local satirist had erected a temporary tombstone at 
Sandy’s head, bearing the inscription, “Effects of McCorkle’s 
whisky, — kills at forty rods,” with a hand pointing to 
McCorkle^s saloon. But this, I imagine, was, like most 
local satire, personal ; and was a reflection upon the unfair- 
ness of the process rather than a commentary upon the 
impropriety of the result. With this facetious exception, 
Sahdy had been undisturbed. A wandering mule, released 
from his pack, had cropped the scant herbage beside him, 
and sniffed curiously at the prostrate man ; a vagabond 
dog, with that deep sympathy which the species have for 
drunken men, had licked his dusty boots and curled 
himself up at his feet, and lay there, blinking one eye in 
the sunlight, with a simulation of dissipation that was u> 


148 The Idyl of Red Gulch. 

genious and dog-like in its implied flattery of the unconscious 
man beside him. 

Meanwhile the shadows of the pine trees had slowly 
swung around until they crossed the road, and their trunks 
barred the open meadow with gigantic parallels of black 
and yellow. Little puffs of red dust, lifted by the plunging 
hoofs of passing teams, dispersed in a grimy shower upon 
the recumbent man. The sun sank lower and lower, and 
still Sandy stirred not And then the repose of this 
philosopher was disturbed, as other philosophers have been, 
by the intrusion of an unphilosophical sex. 

“ Miss Mary,” as she was known to the little flock that 
she had just dismissed from the log schoolhouse beyond 
the pines, was taking her afternoon walk. Observing an 
unusually fine cluster of blossoms on the azalea bush 
opposite, she crossed the road to pluck it, picking her 
way through the red dust, not without certain fierce little 
shivers of disgust and some feline circumlocution. And 
then she came suddenly upon Sandy ! 

Of course she uttered the little staccato cry of her sex. 
But when she had paid that tribute to her physical weak- 
ness she became overbold and halted for a moment, — at 
least six feet from this prostrate monster, — with her white 
skirts gathered in her hand, ready for flight. But neither 
sound nor motion came from the bush. With one little 
foot she then overturned the satirical headboard, and 
muttered “Beasts !” — ^an epithet which probably, at that 
moment, conveniently classified in her mind the entire 
male population of Red Gulch. For Miss Mary being 
possessed of certain rigid notions of her own, had not, 
perhaps, properly appreciated the demonstrative gallantry 
hr which the Californian has been so justly celebrated by 
his brother Californians, and had, as a newcomer, perhajn 
fairly earned the reputation of being “ stuck up.” 


149 


The Idyl of Red Gulch. 

As she stood there she noticed, also, that the slant sun- 
beams were heating Sandy’s head to what she judged to 
be an unhealthy temperature, and that his hat was lying 
uselessly at his side. To pick it up and to place it over 
his face was a work requiring some courage, particularly as 
his eyes were open. Yet she did it and made good her 
retreat But she was somewhat concerned, on looking 
back, to see that the hat was removed, and that Sandy was 
sitting up and saying something. 

The truth was, that in the calm depths of Sandy’s mind 
he was satisfied that the rays of the sun were beneficial 
and healthful; that from childhood he had objected to 
lying down in a hat ; that no people but condemned fools, 
past redemption, ever wore hats ; and that his right to 
dispense with them when he pleased was inalienable. 
This was the statement of his inner consciousness. Unfor- 
tunately, its outward expression was vague, being limited 
to a repetition of the following formula : — “Su’shine all ri’ ! 
Wasser maar, eh ? Wass up, su’shine ? ” 

Miss Mary stopped, and, taking fresh courage from her 
vantage of distance, asked him if there was anything that 
he wanted. 

“ Wass up ? Wasser maar ? ’’ continued Sandy, in a 
very high key. 

“ Get up, you horrid man ! said Miss Mary, now 
thoroughly incensed ; “ get up and go home.” 

Sandy staggered to his feet. He was six feet high, and 
Miss Mary trembled. He started forward a few paces and 
then stopped. 

“ Wass I go home for ? ” he suddenly asked, with great 
gravity. 

“Go and take a bath,” replied Miss Mary, eying his 
grimy person with great disfavour. 

To her infinite dismay, Sandy suddenly pulled off hia 


150 The Idyl of Red Gulch. 

coat and vest, threw them on the ground, kicked off his 
boots, and, plunging y^ildly forward, darted headlong over 
the hill in the direction of the river. 

“ Goodness Heavens ! the man will be drowned ! ” said 
Miss Mary ; and then, with feminine inconsistency, she ran 
back to the schoolhouse and locked herself in. 

That night, while seated at supper with her hostess, the 
blacksmith’s wife, it came to Miss Mary to ask, demurely, 
if her husband ever got drunk. “ Abner,” responded Mrs, 
Stidger reflectively, “ let’s see ! Abner hasn’t been tight 
since last ’lection.” Miss Mary would have liked to ask if 
he preferred lying in the sun on these occasions, and if a 
cold bath would have hurt him; but this would have 
involved an explanation, which she did not then care to 
give. So she contented herself with opening her grey eyes 
widely at the red-cheeked Mrs. Stidger, — a fine specimen 
of South-Western efflorescence, — and then dismissed the 
subject altogether. The next day she wrote to her dearest 
friend in Boston ; “ I think I find the intoxicated portion 
of this community the least objectionable. I refer, my 
dear, to the men, of course. I do not know anything that 
could make the women tolerable.” 

In less than a week Miss Mary had forgotten this 
episode, except that her afternoon walks took thereafter, 
almost unconsciously, another direction. She noticed, how- 
ever, that every morning a fresh cluster of azalea blossoms 
appeared among the flowers on her desk. This was not 
strange, as her little flock were aware of her fondness for 
flowers, and invariably kept her desk bright with anemones, 
syringas, and lupines ; but, on questioning them, they one 
and all professed ignorance of the azaleas. A few days 
later, Master Johnny Stidger, whose desk was nearest tc 
the window, was suddenly taken with spasms of apparently 
gratuitous laughter, that threatened the discipline of the 


The Idyl of Red Gulch. 1 5 1 

ichool. All that Miss Mary could get from him ivas, that 
Borne one had been “looking in the winder.” Irate and 
indignant, she sallied from her hive to do battle with the 
intruder. As she turned the corner of the schoolhouse 
she came plump upon the quondam drunkard, now per- 
fectly sober, and inexpressibly sheepish and guilty-looking. 

These facts Miss Mary was not slow to take a feminine 
advantage of, in her present humour. But it was somewhat 
^confusing to observe, also, that the beast, despite some 
faint signs of past dissipation, was amiable looking, — in 
fact, a kind of blonde Samson, whose corn-coloured silken 
beard apparently had never yet known the touch of barber's 
razor or Delilah’s shears. So that the cutting speech 
which quivered on her ready tongue died upon her lips, 
and sfhe contented herself with receiving his stammering 
apology with supercilious eyelids and the gathered skirts 
of uncontamination. When she re-entered the schoolroom, 
her eyes fell upon the azaleas with a new sense of revela- 
tion ; and then she laughed, and the little people all 
laughed, and they were all unconsciously very happy. 

It was on a hot day — and not long after this — that two 
short-legged boys came to grief on the threshold of the 
school with a pail of water, which they had laboriously 
brought from the spring, and that Miss ’ Mary compas- 
sionately seized the pail and started for the spring herself. 
At the foot of the hill a shadow crossed her path, and a 
blue-shirted arm dexterously but gently relieved her of her 
burden. Miss Mary was both embarrassed and angry. 
“ If you carried more of that for yourself,” she said spite- 
fully to the blue arm, without deigning to raise her lashes 
to its owner, “you’d do better.” In the submissive silence 
that followed she regretted the speech, and thanked him so 
sweetly at the door that he stumbled. Which caused the 
children to laugh again, — a laugh in which Miss Maiy 


152 The Idyl of Red Gulch. 

joined, until the colour came faintly into her pale cheek. 
The next day a barrel was mysteriously placed beside the 
door, and as mysteriously filled with fresh spring-watei 
every morning. 

Nor was this superior young person without other quiet 
attentions. Profane Bill,” driver of the Slumgullion 
Stage, widely known in the newspapers for his “ gallantry ” 
in invariably offering the box-seat to the fair sex, had 
excepted Miss Mary from this attention, on the ground that 
he had a habit of “cussin’ on up grades,” and gave her 
half the coach to herself. Jack Hamlin, a gambler, having 
once silently ridden with her in the same coach, afterward 
threw a decanter at the head of a confederate for mention- 
ing her name in a bar-room. The over-dressed mother of 
a pupil whose paternity was doubtful had often lingered 
near this astute Vestal’s temple, never daring to enter its 
sacred precincts, but content to worship the priestess from 
afar. 

With such unconscious intervals the monotonous proces- 
sion of blue skies, glittering sunshine, brief twilights, and 
starlit nights passed over Red Gulch. Miss Mary grew 
fond of walking in the sedate and proper woods. Perhaps 
she believed, with Mrs. Stidger, that the balsamic odours of 
the firs “ did her chest good,” for certainly her slight cough 
was less frequent and her step was firmer ; perhaps she had 
learned the unending lesson which the patient pines are 
never weary of repeating to heedful or listless ears. And 
so one day she planned a picnic on Buckeye Hill, and 
took the children with her. Away from the dusty road, the 
straggling shanties, the yellow ditches, the clamour of rest- 
less engines, the cheap finery of shop-windows, the deeper 
glitter of paint and coloured glass, and the thin veneering 
which barbarism takes upon itself in such localities, what 
infinite relief was theirs ! The last heap of ragged rock and 


153 


The Idyl of Red Gulch, 

clay passed, the last unsightly chasm crossed, — how the 
waiting woods opened their long files to receive them I 
How the children — perhaps because they had not yet 
grown quite away from the breast of the bounteous Mother 
— threw themselves face downward on her brown bosom 
with uncouth caresses, filling the air with their laughter ; 
and how Miss Mary herself — felinely fastidious and in- 
trenched as she was in the purity of spotless skirts, collar, 
and cuffs — forgot all, and ran like a crested quail at the 
head of her brood, until, romping, laughing, and panting, 
with a loosened braid of brown hair, a hat hanging by a 
knotted ribbon from her throat, she came suddenly and 
violently, in the heart of the forest, upon the luckless 
Sandy ! 

The explanations, apologies, and not overwise conversa- 
tion that ensued need not be indicated here. It would 
seem, however, that Miss Mary had already established 
some acquaintance with this ex-drunkard. Enough that he 
was soon accepted as one of the party ; that the children, 
with that quick intelligence which Providence gives the 
helpless, recognised a friend, and played with his blonde 
beard and long silken mustache, and took other liberties, 
— as the helpless are apt to do. And when he had built a 
fire against a tree, and had shown them other mysteries of 
woodcraft, their admiration knew no bounds. At the dose 
of two such foolish, idle, happy hours he found himself 
lying at the feet of the schoolmistress, gazing dreamily in 
her face as she sat upon the sloping hillside weaving 
wreaths of laurel and syringa, in very much the same 
attitude as he had lain when first they met. Nor was 
the similitude greatly forced. The weakness of an easy, 
sensuous nature, that had found a dreamy exaltation in 
liquor, it is to be feared was now finding an equal intoxic* 
tion in love. 


154 Idyl of Red Gulch. 

I think that Sandy was dimly conscious of this himselC 
I know that he longed to be doing something, — slaying a 
grizzly, scalping a savage, or sacrificing himself in some way 
for the sake of this sallow-faced, grey-eyed schoolmistress. 
As I should like to present him in a heroic attitude, I stay 
my hand with great difficulty at this moment, being only 
withheld from introducing such an episode by a strong con- 
viction that it does not usually occur at such times. And 
I trust that my fairest reader, who remembers that, in a 
real crisis, it is always some uninteresting stranger or 
unromantic policeman, and not Adolphus, who rescues, will 
forgive the omission. 

So they sat there undisturbed, — the woodpeckers chat- 
tering overhead and the voices of the children coming 
pleasantly from the hollow below. What they said matters 
little. What they thought — which might have been inter- 
esting — did not transpire. The woodpeckers only learned 
how Miss Mary was an orphan ; how she left her uncle’s 
house to come to California for the sake of health and 
independence ; how Sandy was an orphan too ; how he 
came to California for excitement ; how he had lived a wild 
life, and how he was trying to reform ; and other details, 
which, from a woodpecker’s view-point, undoubtedly must 
have seemed stupid and a waste of time. But even in 
such trifles was the afternoon spent ; and when the children 
were again gathered, and Sandy, with a delicacy which the 
schoolmistress well understood, took leave of them quietly 
At the outskirts of the settlement, it had seemed the shortest 
day of her weary life. 

As the long, dry summer withered to its roots, the school 
term of Red Gulch — to use a local euphuism — “ dried up” 
also. In another day Miss Mary would be free, and for a 
season, at least. Red Gulch would know her no more. She 
was seated alone in the schoolhouse, her cheek resting os 


155 


The Idyl of Red Gulch, 

her hand, her eyes half closed in one of those day-dreams 
in which Miss Mary, I fear, to the danger of school dis- 
cipline, was lately in the habit of indulging. Her lap was 
full of mosses, ferns, and other woodland memories. She 
was so preoccupied with these and her own thoughts that a 
gentle tapping at the door passed unheard, or translated 
itself into the remembrance of far-off woodpeckers. Wheri 
at last it asserted itself more distinctly, she started up with 
a flushed cheek and opened the door. On the threshold 
stood a woman, the self-assertion and audacity of whose dress 
were in singular contrast to her timid, irresolute bearing. 

Miss Mary recognised at a glance the dubious mother of 
her anonymous pupil. Perhaps she was disappointed, per- 
haps she was only fastidious ; but as she coldly invited her 
to enter, she half-unconsciously settled her white cuffs and 
collar, and gathered closer her own chaste skirts. It was, 
perhaps, for this reason that the embarrassed stranger, after 
a moment’s hesitation, left her gorgeous parasol open and 
sticking in the dust beside the door, and then sat down at 
the farther end of a long bench. Her voice was husky as 
she began — 

“ I heerd tell that you were goin’ down to the Bay to 
morrow, and I couldn’t let you go until I came to thank 
you for your kindness to my Tommy.” 

Tommy, Miss Mary said, was a good boy, and deserved 
more than the poor attention she could give him. 

“ Thank you, miss ; thank ye ! ” cried the stranger, 
brightening even through the colour which Red Gulch 
knew facetiously as her “war paint,” and striving, in her 
embarrassment, to drag the long bench nearer the school- 
mistress. “ I thank you, miss, for that ; and if I am his 
mother, there ain’t a sweeter, dearer, better boy lives than 
him. And if I ain’t much as says it, thar ain’t a sweetec 
dearer, angeler teacher lives than he’s got.’ 


156 The Idyl of Red Gulch. 

Miss Mary, sitting primly behind her desk, with a rule* 
over her shoulder, opened her grey eyes widely at this, but 
said nothing. 

“ It ain’t for you to be complimented by the like of me, 
I know,” she went on hurriedly. “ It ain’t for me to be 
cornin’ here, in broad day, to do it, either ; but I come to 
ask a favour, — not for me, miss, — not for me, but for the 
darling boy.” 

Encouraged by a look in the young schoolmistress’s eye, 
and putting her lilac-gloved hands together, the fingers 
downward, between her knees, she went on, in a low 
voice — 

“You see, miss, there’s no one the boy has any claim on 
but me, and I ain’t the proper person to bring him up. I 
thought some, last year, of sending him away to ’Frisco to 
school, but when they talked of bringing a schoolma’am 
here, I waited till I saw you, and then I knew it was all 
right, and I could keep my boy a little longer. And oh ! 
miss, he loves you so much ; and if you could hear him 
talk about you in his pretty way, and if he could ask you 
what I ask you now, you couldn’t refuse him. 

“It is natural,” she went on, rapidly, in a voice that 
trembled strangely between pride and humility, — “it’s 
natural that he should take to you, miss, for his father, 
when I first knew him, was a gentleman, — and the boy 
must forget me, sooner or later, — and so I ain’t a goin’ to 
cry about that. For I come to ask you to take my Tommy, 
— God bless him for the bestest, sweetest boy that lives, — 
to — to — take him with you.” 

She had risen and caught the young girl’s hand in her 
own, and had fallen on her knees beside her. 

“ I’ve money plenty, and it’s all yours and his. Put him 
in some good school, where you can go and see him, and 
help him to — to — to forget his mother. Do with him whal 


157 


The Idyl of Red Gulch. 

you like. The worst you can do will be kindness to what 
he will learn with me. Only take him out of this wicked 
life, this cruel place, this home of shame and sorrow. You 
will! I know you will, — won’t you? You will, — you must 
not, you cannot say no ! You will make him as pure, as 
gentle as yourself ; and when he has grown up, you will tell 
him his father’s name, — the name that hasn’t passed my 
lips for years, — the name of Alexander Morton, whom they 
call here Sandy 1 Miss Mary I — do not take your hand 
away ! Miss Mary, speak to me 1 You will take my boy? 
Do not put your face from me. I know it ought not to 
look on such as me. Miss Mary ! — my God, be merciful I 
- — she is leaving me ! ” 

Miss Mary had risen, and, in the gathering twilight, had 
felt her way to the open window. She stood there, leaning 
against the casement, her eyes fixed on the last rosy tints 
that were fading from the western sky. There was still 
some of its light on her pure young forehead, on her white 
collar, on her clasped white hands, but all fading slowly 
away. The suppliant had dragged herself, still on her 
knees, beside her. 

“ I know it takes time to consider. I will wait here all 
night ; but I cannot go until you speak. Do not deny me 
now. You will ! — I see it in your sweet face, — such a face 
as I have seen in my dreams. I see it in your eyes, Miss 
Mary ! — you will take my boy ' ” 

The last red beam crept higher, suffused Miss Mary’s 
eyes with something of its glory, flickered, and faded, and 
went out. The sun had set on Red Gulch. In the twi- 
light and silence Miss Mary’s voice sounded pleasantly. 

“ I will take the boy. Send him to me to-night” 

The happy mother raised the hem of Miss Mary’s skirts 
to her lips. She would have buried her hot face in its 
virgin folds, but she dared not She rose to her feet 


158 The Idyl of Red Gulch, 

“Does — this man — ^know of your intention?” asked 
Miss Mary suddenly. 

“ No, nor cares. He has never even seen the child to 
know it.” 

“ Go to him at once — to-night — now ! Tell him what 
you have done. Tell him I have taken his child, and tell 
him — he must never see — see — the child again. Wherever 
it may be, he must not come ; wherever I may take it, he 
must not follow ! There, go now, please, — I’m weary, and 
— have much yet to do ! ” 

They walked together to the door. On the threshold the 
woman turned. 

“ Good-night I ” 

She would have fallen at Miss Mary’s feet. But at the 
same moment the young girl reached out her arms, caught 
the sinful woman to her own pure breast for one brief 
moment, and then closed and locked the door. 

It was with a sudden sense of great responsibility that 
Profane Bill took the reins of the Slumgullion Stage the 
next morning, for the schoolmistress was one of his pas- 
sengers. As he entered the highroad, in obedience to a 
pleasant voice from the “ inside,” he suddenly reined up his 
horses and respectfully waited, as “ Tommy ” hopped out at 
the command of Miss Mary. 

“ Not that bush. Tommy, — the next” 

Tommy whipped out his new pocket-knife, and cutting 
a branch from a tall azalea bush, returned with it to Misi 
Mary. 

“ All right now ? ” 

“ All right ! ” 

And the stage-door closed on the Idyl of Red Gulch. 


( 159 ) 


'Broton of Calateras. 

A SUBDUED tone of conversation, and the absence of cigar- 
smoke and boot-he^ls at the windows of the Wingdam 
stage-coach, made it evident that one of the inside pas- 
sengers was a woman. A disposition on the part of 
loungers at the stations to congregate before the window, 
and some concern in regard to the appearance of coats, 
hats, and collars, further indicated that she was lovely. 
All of which Mr. Jack Hamlin, on the box-seat, noted with 
the smile of cynical philosophy. Not that he depreciated 
the sex, but that he recognised therein a deceitful element, 
the pursuit of which sometimes drew mankind away from 
the equally uncertain blandishments of poker, — of which 
it may be remarked that Mr. Hamlin was a professional 
exponent. 

So that, when he placed his narrow boot on the wheel 
and leaped down, he did not even glance at the window 
from which a green veil was fluttering, but lounged up and 
down with that listless and grave indifference of his class, 
which was, perhaps, the next thing to good-breeding. With 
his closely-buttoned figure and self-contained ait he was a 
marked contrast to the other passengers, with their feverish 
restlessness and boisterous emotion; and even Bill Masters, 
a graduate of Harvard, with his slovenly dress, his over- 
flowing vitality, his intense appreciation of lawlessness and 
barbarism, and his mouth filled with crackers and cheese; 


1 6 o Brown of Calaveras, 

I fear cut but an unromantic figure beside this lonely calcu- 
lator of chances, with his pale Greek face and Homeric 
gravity. 

The driver called “ All aboard ! ” and Mr. Hamlin 
returned to the coach. His foot was upon the wheel, and 
his face raised to the level of the open window, when, at 
the same moment, what appeared to him to be the finest 
eyes in the world suddenly met his. He quietly dropped 
down again, addressed a few words to one of the inside 
passengers, effected an exchange of seats, and as quietly 
took his place inside. Mr. Hamlin never allowed his 
philosophy to interfere with decisive and prompt action. 

I fear that this irruption of Jack cast some restraint 
upon the other passengers, particularly those who were 
making themselves most agreeable to the lady. One of 
them leaned forward, and apparently conveyed to her 
information regarding Mr. Hamlin’s profession in a single 
epithet. Whether Mr. Hamlin heard it, or whether he 
recognised in the informant a distinguished jurist, from 
whom, but a few evenings before, he had won several 
thousand dollars, I cannot say. His colourless face betrayed 
no sign ; his black eyes, quietly observant, glanced indiffer- 
ently past the legal gentleman, and rested on the much 
more pleasing features of his neighbour. An Indian stoicism 
— said to be an inheritance from his maternal ancestor — 
stood him in good service, until the rolling wheels rattled 
upon the river gravel at Scott’s Ferry, and the stage drew 
up at the International Hotel for dinner. The legal gentle- 
man and a member of Congress leaped out, and stood 
ready to assist the descending goddess, while Colonel 
Starbottle of Siskiyou took charge of her parasol and 
shawl In this multiplicity of attention there was a momen- 
tary confusion and delay. Jack Hamlin quietly opened 
'he opposite door of the coach, took the lady’s hand, with 


Browfi of Calaveras. 1 6 1 

that decision and positiveness which a hesitating and unde- 
cided sex know how to admire, and in an instant had 
dexterously and gracefully swung her to the ground and 
again lifted her to the platform. An audible chuckle on 
the box, I fear, came from that other cynic, “ Yuba Bill,” 
the driver. “Look keerfully arter that baggage. Kernel,” 
said the expressman, with affected concern, as he looked 
after Colonel Starbottle, gloomily bringing up the rear of 
the triumphant procession to the waiting-room. 

Mr. Hamlin did not stay for dinner. His horse was 
already saddled and awaiting him. He dashed over the 
ford, up the gravelly hill, and out into the dusty perspective 
of the Wingdam road, like one leaving an unpleasant fancy 
behind him. The inmates of dusty cabins by the roadside 
shaded their eyes with their hands and looked after him, 
recognising the man by his horse, and speculating what 
“was up with Comanche Jack.” Yet much of this interest 
centred in the horse, in a community where the time made 
by “French Pete’s” mare, in his run from the Sheriff of 
Calaveras, eclipsed all concern in the ultimate fate of that 
worthy. 

The sweating flanks of his grey at length recalled him to 
himself. He checked his speed, and turning into a by- 
road, sometimes used as a cut-off, trotted leisurely along, 
the reins hanging listlessly from his fingers. As he rode 
on, the character of the landscape changed and became 
more pastoral. Openings in groves of pine and sycamore 
disclosed some rude attempts at cultivation, — a flowering 
vine trailed over the porch of one cabin, and a woman 
rocked her cradled babe under the roses of another. A 
little farther on Mr. Hamlin came upon some barelegged 
children wading in the willowy creek, and so wrought upon 
them with a badinage peculiar to himself, that they were 
emboldened to climb up his horse’s legs and over his saddle, 

VOL. II. L 


1^2 Brown of Calaveras. 

until he was fain to develop an exaggerated ferocity of 
demeanour, and to escape, leaving behind some kisses and 
coin. And then, advancing deeper into the woods, where 
all signs of habitation failed, he began to sing, uplifting 
a tenor so singularly sweet, and shaded by a pathos so 
subdued and tender, that I wot the robins and linnets 
stopped to listen. Mr. Hamlin’s voice was not cultivated ; 
the subject of his song was some sentimental lunacy, 
borrowed from the negro minstrels ; but there thrilled 
through all some occult quality of tone and expression 
that was unspeakably touching. Indeed, it was a wonder- 
ful sight to see this sentimental blackleg, with a pack of 
cards in his pocket and a revolver at his back, sending his 
voice before him through the dim woods with a plaint 
about his “ Nelly’s grave,” in a way that overflowed the 
eyes of the listener. A sparrow-hawk, fresh from his sixth 
victim, possibly recognising in Mr. Hamlin a kindred spirit, 
stared at him in surprise, and was fain to confess the 
superiority of man. With a superior predatory capacity, 
he couldn’t sing. 

But Mr. Hamlin presently found himself again on the 
highroad and at his former pace. Ditches and banks of 
gravel, denuded hillsides, stumps, and decayed trunks of 
trees, took the place of woodland and ravine, and indicated 
his approach to civilisation. Then a church-steeple came 
in sight, and he knew that he had reached home. In a few 
moments he was clattering down the single narrow street 
that lost itself in a chaotic ruin of races, ditches, and tail- 
ings at the foot of the hill, and dismounted before the 
gilded windows of the “Magnolia” saloon. Passing 
through the long bar-room, he pushed open a green-baize 
door, entered a dark passage, opened another door with a 
pass-key, and found himself in a dimly-lighted room, whose 
furniture, though elegant and costly for the locality, showed 


Brown of Calaveras. 1 63 

ligns of abuse. The inlaid centre-table was overlaid with 
stained disks that were not contemplated in the original 
design, the embroidered arm-chairs were discoloured, 
and the green velvet lounge, on which Mr. Hamlin threw 
himself, was soiled at the foot with the red soil of 
Wingdam. 

Mr. Hamlin did not sing in his cage. He lay still, look- 
ing at a highly-coloured painting above him, representing 
a young creature of opulent charms. It occurred to him 
then, for the first time, that he had never seen exactly that 
kind of a woman, and that, if he should, he would not, 
probably, fall in love with her. Perhaps he was thinking 
of another style of beauty. But just then some one knocked 
at the door. Without rising, he pulled a cord that appa- 
rently shot back a bolt, for the door swung open and a 
man entered. 

The newcomer was broad-shouldered and robust, — a 
vigour not borne out in the face, which, though handsome, 
was singularly weak and disfigured by dissipation. He 
appeared to be also under the influence of liquor, for he 
started on seeing Mr. Hamlin, and said, “ I thought Kate 
was here;” stammered, and seemed confused and embar- 
rassed. 

Mr. Hamlin smiled the smile which he had before worn 
on the Wingdam coach, and sat up, quite refreshed and 
ready for business. 

** You didn’t come up on the stage,” continued the new- 
comer, “ did you ? ” 

“No,” replied Hamlin; “I left it at Scott’s Ferry. It 
isn’t due for half an hour yet. But how’s luck. Brown ? ” 

“ D d bad,” said Brown, his face suddenly assuming 

an expression of weak despair. “I’m cleaned out again, 
Jack,” he continued, in a whining tone, that formed a 
pitiable contrast to his bulky figure ; “ can’t you help m« 


1 64 Brown of Calaveras. 

mth a hundred till to-morrow’s clean-up? You see I’ve got 
to send money home to the old woman, and — you’ve won 
twenty times that amount from me.” 

The conclusion was, perhaps, not entirely logical, but 
Jack overlooked it, and handed the sum to his visitor. 
“ The old woman business is about played out. Brown,” he 
added, by way of commentary; “why don’t you say you 
want to buck agin’ faro? You know you ain’t married !” 

“ Fact, sir,” said Brown, with a sudden gravity, as if the 
mere contact of the gold with the palm of the hand had 
imparted some dignity to his frame. “ I’ve got a wife — a 

d d good one, too, if I do say it — in the States. It’s 

three year since I’ve seen her, and a year since I’ve writ to 
her. Wh^n things is about straight, and we get down to 
the lead, I’m going to send for her.” 

“And Kate?” queried Mr. Hamlin, with his previous 
smile. 

Mr. Brown of Calaveras essayed an archness of glance 
to cover his confusion, which his weak face and whisky- 
muddled intellect but poorly carried out, and said — 

“ D n it. Jack, a man must have a little liberty, you 

know. But come, what do you say to a little game ? Give 
us a show to double this hundred.” 

Jack Hamlin looked curiously at his fatuous friend. 
Perhaps he knew that the man was predestined to lose the 
money, and preferred that it should flow back into his own 
goffers rather than any other. He nodded his head and 
drew his chair toward the table. At the same moment 
there came a rap upon the door. 

“ It’s Kate,” said Mr. Brown. 

Mr. Hamlin shot back the bolt and the door opened. 
But, for the first time in his life, he staggered to his feet 
utterly unnerved and abashed, and for the first time in his 
Ufe the hot blood crimsoned his colourless cheeks to his 


Brown of Calaveras, 165 

forehead. For before him stood the lady he had lifted 
from the Wingdam coach, whom Brown, dropping his 
cards with a hysterical laugh, greeted as — 

“ My old woman, by thunder ! ” 

They say that Mrs. Brown burst into tears and re- 
proaches of her husband. I saw her in 1857 at Marysville, 
and disbelieve the story. And the Wingdam Chronicle of 
the next week, under the head of “Touching Reunion,” 
said : “ One of those beautiful and touching incidents, 
peculiar to California life, occurred last week in our city. 
The wife of one of Wingdam’s eminent pioneers, tired of 
the effete civilisation of the East and its inhospitable 
climate, resolved to join her noble husband upon these 
golden shores. Without informing him of her intention, 
she undertook the long journey, and arrived last week. 
The joy of the husband may be easier imagined than de- 
scribed. The meeting is said to have been indescribably 
affecting. We trust her example may be followed.” 

Whether owing to Mrs. Brown’s influence, or to some more 
successful speculations, Mr. Brown’s financial fortune from 
that day steadily improved. He bought out his partners 
in the “ Nip and Tuck ” lead, with money which was said 
to have been won at poker a week or two after his wife’s 
arrival, but which rumour, adopting Mrs. Brown’s theory 
that Brown had forsworn the gaming-table, declared to have 
been furnished by Mr. Jack Hamlin. He built and fur- 
nished the “ Wingdam House,” which pretty Mrs. Brown’s 
great popularity kept overflowing with guests. He was 
elected to the Assembly, and gave largess to churches. A 
street in Wingdam was named in his honour. 

Yet it was noted that in proportion as he waxed wealthy 
and fortunate, he grew pale, thin, and anxious. As his 
wife’s popularity increased, he became fretful and impatient 


i66 Brown of Calaveras, 

The mbst uxorious of husbands, he was absurdly jealous. 
If he did not interfere with his wife’s social liberty, it was 
because it was maliciously whispered that his first and only 
attempt was met by an outburst from Mrs. Brown that terri- 
fied him into silence. Much of this kind of gossip came 
from those of her own sex whom she had supplanted in the 
chivalrous attentions of Wingdam, which, like most popular 
chivalry, was devoted to an admiration of power, whether of 
masculine force or feminine beauty. It should be remem- 
bered, too, in her extenuation, that, since her arrival, she 
had been the unconscious priestess of a mythological wor- 
ship, perhaps not more ennobling to her womanhood than 
that which distinguished an older Greek democracy. I 
think that Brown was dimly conscious of this. But his only 
confidant was Jack Hamlin, whose infelix reputation natur- 
ally precluded any open intimacy with the family, and whose 
visits were infrequent 

It was midsummer and a moonlit night, and Mrs. 
Brown, very rosy, large-eyed, and pretty, sat upon the piazza, 
enjoying the fresh incense of the mountain breeze, and, it is 
to be feared, another incense which was not so fresh nor 
quite as innocent Beside her sat Colonel Starbottle and 
Judge Boompointer, and a later addition to her court in 
the shape of a foreign tourist. She was in good spirits. 

“ What do you see down the road ? ” inquired the gallant 
Colonel, who had been conscious, for the last few minutes, 
that Mrs. Brown’s attention was diverted. 

“Dust,” said Mrs. Brown, with a sigh. “Only Sister 
June’s ‘ flock of sheep.’ ” 

The Colonel, whose literary recollections did not extend 
farther back than last week’s paper, took a more practical 
view. “ It ain’t sheep,” he continued ; “ it’s a horseman. 
Judge, ain’t that Jack Hamlin’s grey?” 

But the Judge didn’t know ; and, as Mrs. Brown sug 


Brown of Calaveras, 167 

jested the air was growing too cold for further investiga- 
tions, they retired to the parlour. 

Mr. Brown was in the stable, where he generally retired 
after dinner. Perhaps it was to show his contempt for his 
wife’s companions ; perhaps, like other weak natures, he 
found pleasure in the exercise of absolute power o\'er 
inferior animals. He had a certain gratification in the 
training of a chestnut mare, whom he could beat or caress 
as pleased him, which he couldn’t do with Mrs. Brown. It 
was here that he recognised a certain grey horse which had 
just come in, and, looking a little farther on, found his rider. 
Brown’s greeting was cordial and hearty ; Mr. Hamlin’s 
somewhat restrained. But, at Brown’s urgent request, he 
followed him up the back-stairs to a narrow corridor, and 
thence to a small room looking out upon the stable-yard. 
It was plainly furnished with a bed, a table, a few chairs, 
and a rack for guns and whips. ’ 

“This yer’s my home. Jack,” said Brown with a sigh, as 
he threw himself upon the bed and motioned his com- 
panion to a chair. “ Her room’s t’ other end of the halL 
It’s more’n six months since we’ve lived together, or met, 
except at meals. It’s mighty rough papers on the head of 
the house, ain’t it ? ” he said with a forced laugh. “ But 

I’m glad to see you, Jack, d d glad,” and he reached 

from the bed, and again shook the unresponsive hand of 
Jack Hamlin. 

“ I brought ye up here, for I didn’t want to talk in the 
stable ; though, for the matter of that, it’s all round towiL 
Don’t strike a light. We can talk here in the moonshine 
Put up your feet on that winder and sit here beside me. 
Thar’s whisky in that jug.” 

Mr. Hamlin did not avail himself of the information. 
Brown of Calaveras turned his face to the wall and con 
\inued — 


1 68 Brown of Calaveras, 

** If I didn’t love the woman, Jack, I wouldn’t mind 
But it’s loving her, and seeing her day arter day goin’ on 
at this rate, and no one to put down the brake ; that’s what 
gits me ! But I’m glad to see ye. Jack, d d glad.” 

In the darkness he groped about until he had found and 
wrung his companion’s hand again. He would have detained 
it, but Jack slipped it into the buttoned breast of his coat, 
and asked, listlessly, “ How long has this been going on ? ” 

“ Ever since she came here ; ever since the day she walked 
into the ‘Magnolia.’ I was a fool then ; Jack, I’m a fool 
now ; but I didn’t know how much I loved her till then. 
And she hasn’t been the same woman since. 

“But that ain’t all. Jack ; and it’s what I wanted to see 
you about, and I’m glad you’ve come. It ain’t that she 
doesn’t love me any more ; it ain’t that she fools with every 
chap that comes along ; for perhaps I staked her love and 
lost it, as I did everything else at the ‘ Magnolia ; ’ and 
perhaps foolin’ is nateral to some women, and thar ain’t no 
great harm done, ’cept to the fools. But, Jack, I think, — I 
think she loves somebody else. Don’t move. Jack ! don’t 
move ; if your pistol hurts ye, take it off. 

“ It’s been more’n six months now" that she’s seemed 
unhappy and lonesome, and kinder nervous and scared 
like. And sometimes I’ve ketched her lookin’ at me sort 
of timid and pitying. And she writes to somebody. And 
for the last week she’s been gathering her own things, — 
trinkets, and furbelows, and jew’lry, — and. Jack, I think 
she’s goin’ off. I could stand all but that. To have her 
steal away like a thief ! ” He put his face downward to the 
pillow, and for a few moments there was no sound but the 
ti( king of a clock on the mantel. Mr. Hamlin lit a cigar, 
and moved to the open window. The moon no longer 
shone into the room, and the bed and its occupant were in 
shadow. “ What shall I do, Jack ? ” said the voice from 
the darkness. 


Brown of Calaveras, 1 69 

The answer came promptly and clearly from the window- 
side, — “ Spot the man, and kill him on sight.” 

“But, Jack” 

“ He’s took the risk ! ” 

“ But will that bring her back ? ^ 

Jack did not reply, but moved from the window towards 
the door. 

“ Don’t go yet. Jack ; light the candle and sit by the 
table. It’s a comfort to see ye, if nothin’ else.” 

Jack hesitated and then complied. He drew a pack of 
cards from his pocket and shuffled them, glancing at the 
bed. But Brown’s face was turned to the walk When 
Mr. Hamlin had shuffled the cards, he cut them, and dealt 
one card on the opposite side of the table towards the 
bed, and another on his side of the table for himself. The 
first was a deuce ; his own card a king. He then shuffled 
and cut again. This time “dummy” had a queen and 
himself a four-spot. Jack brightened up for the third deal. 
It brought his adversary a deuce and himself a king again. 
“Two out of three,” said Jack, audibly. 

“What’s that, Jack?” said Brown. 

“ Nothing.” 

Then Jack tried his hand with dice; but he always threw 
sixes and his imaginary opponent aces. The force of habit 
is sometimes confusing. 

Meanwhile some magnetic influence in Mr. Hamlin’s 
presence, or the anodyne of liquor, or both, brought sur- 
cease of sorrow, and Brown slept. Mr. Hamlin moved his 
chair to the window and looked out on the town of Wing- 
dam, now sleeping peacefully, its harsh outlines softened 
and subdued, its glaring colours mellowed and sobered in 
the moonlight that flowed over all. In the hush he could 
hear the gurgling of water in the ditches and the sighing 

the pines beyond the hilL Then he looked up at the 


1 70 Brown of Calaveras, 

firmament, and as he did so a star shot across the twink- 
ling field. Presently another, and then another. The 
phenomenon suggested to Mr. Hamlin a fresh augury. If 

in another fifteen minutes another star should fall He 

sat there, watch in hand, for twice that time, but the 
phenomenon was not repeated. 

The clock struck two and Brown still slept. Mr. Hamlin 
approached the table and took from his pocket a letter, 
which he read by the dickering candlelight. It contained 
only a single line, written in pencil, in a woman’s hand, — 

“ Be at the corral with the buggy at three.” 

The sleeper moved uneasily and then awoke. •‘Are 
you there. Jack?” 

«Yes.” 

“Don’t go yet. I dreamed just now. Jack, — dreamed of 
old times. I thought that Sue and me was being married 
agin, and that the parson. Jack, was — who do you think? — 
you ! ” 

The gambler laughed, and seated himself on the bed, 
the paper still in his hand. 

“ It’s a good sign, ain’t it ? ” queried Brown. 

“ I reckon ! Say, old man, hadn’t you better get up ? ” 

The “old man,” thus affectionately appealed to, rose, 
with the assistance of Hamlin’s outstretched hand. 

“Smoke?” 

Brown mechanically took the proffered cigar. 

“Light?” 

Jack had twisted the letter into a spiral, lit it, and held 
it for his companion. He continued to hold it until it was 
consumed, and dropped the fragment — a fiery star — from 
the open window. He watched it as it fell, and then 
leturned to his friend. 

“Old man,” he said, placing his hands upon Brown*i 
•boulders, “in ten minutes I’ll be on the road, and gon# 


Brown of Calaveras. 1 7 1 

like that spark. We won’t see each other agin ; but, before 
I go, take a fool’s advice : sell out all you’ve got, take your 
wife with you, and quit the country. It ain’t no place for 
you nor her. Tell her she must go ; make her go if she 
won’t. Don’t whine because you can’t be a saint and she 
ain’t an angel Be a man, and treat her like a woman. 
Don’t be a d d fool Good-bye.” 

He tore himself from Brown’s grasp and leaped down 
the stairs like a deer. At the stable-door he collared the 
half-sleeping hostler, and backed him against the wall 

“ Saddle my horse in two minutes, or I’ll ” The ellipsis 

was frightfully suggestive. 

“ The missis said you was to have the buggy,” stammered 
the man. 

“ D n the buggy ! ” 

The horse was saddled as fast as the nervous hands of 
the astounded hostler could manipulate buckle and strap. 

** Is anything up, Mr. Hamlin ? ” said the man, who, like 
all his class, admired the elan of his fiery patron, and was 
really concerned in his welfare. 

“ Stand aside ! 

The man fell back. With an oath, a bound, and clatter, 
Jack was into the road. In another moment, to the man’s 
half-awakened eyes, he was but a moving cloud of dust in 
the distance, towards which a star just loosed from its 
brethren was trailing a stream of fire. 

But early that morning the dwellers by the Wingdam 
turnpike, miles away, heard a voice, pure as a skylark’s, 
singing afield. They who were asleep turned over on their 
rude couches to dream of youth and love and olden days. 
Hard-faced men and anxious gold-seekers, already at work, 
ceased their labours and leaned upon their picks to listen 
to a romantic vagabond ambling away against the rosy 
sunrise. 







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BOHEMIAN PAPERS. 



( 175 ) 


As I do not suppose the most gentle of readers will believe 
that anybody’s sponsors in baptism ever wilfully assumed 
the responsibility of such a name, I may as well state that 
I have reason to infer that Melons was simply the nick- 
name of a small boy I once knew. If he had any other, I 
never knew it. 

Various theories were often projected by me to account 
for this strange cognomen. His head, which was covered 
with a transparent down, like that which clothes very small 
chickens, plainly permitting the scalp to show through, to 
an imaginative mind might have suggested that succulent 
vegetable. That his parents, recognising some poetical 
significance in the fruits of the season, might have given 
this name to an August child, was an Oriental explanation. 
That from his infancy he was fond of indulging in melons, 
seemed on the whole the most likely, particularly as Fancy 
was not bred in McGinnis’s Court. He dawned upon me 
as Melons. His proximity was indicated by shrill, youthful 
voices, as “ Ah, Melons ! ” or playfully, “ Hi, Melons ! ” or 
authoritatively, “ You, Melons ! ” 

McGinnis’s Court was a democratic expression of some 
obstinate and radical property-holder. Occupying a limited 
space between two fashionable thoroughfares, it refused to 
conform to circumstances, but sturdily paraded its unkempt 
glories, and frequently asserted itself in ungrammatical 


Melons. 


176 

language. My window-'— a rear room on the ground floor — « 
in this way derived blended light and shadow from the 
court. So low w^as the window-sill, that had I been the 
least predisposed to somnambulism, it would have broken 
out under such favourable auspices, and I should have 
haunted McGinnis’s Court. My speculations as to the 
origin of the court were not altogether gratuitous, for by 
means of this window I once saw the Past, as through a 
glass darkly. It was a Celtic shadow that early one morm 
ing obstructed my ancient lights. It seemed to belong to 
an individual with a pea-coat, a stubby pipe, and bristling 
beard. He was gazing intently at the court, resting on a 
heavy cane, somewhat in the way that heroes dramaticallv 
visit the scenes of their boyhood. As there was little of 
architectural beauty in the court, I came to the conclusion 
that it was McGinnis looking after his property. The fact 
that he carefully kicked a broken bottle out of the road 
somewhat strengthened me in the opinion. But he pre- 
sently walked away, and the court knew him no more. He 
probably collected his rents by proxy — if he collected them 
at all. 

Beyond Melons, of whom all this is purely introductory, 
there was little to interest the most sanguine and hopeful 
nature. In common with all such localities, a great deal of 
washing was done in comparison with the visible results. 
There was always something whisking on the line, and 
always something whisking through the court, that looked 
as if it ought to be there. A fish-geranium — of all plants 
kept for the recreation of mankind, certainly the greatest 
illusion — straggled under the window. Through its dusty 
ktaves I caught the first glance of Melons. 

His age was about seven. He looked older from the 
Tcnerable whiteness of his head, and it was impossible to 
conjecture his size, as he always wore clothes apparentlf 


Melons. 


177 


belonging to some shapely youth of nineteen. A pair of 
pantaloons, that, when sustained by a single suspender, 
completely equipped him, formed his everyday suit. How, 
with this lavish superfluity of clothing, he managed to per- 
form the surprising gymnastic feats it has been my privi- 
lege to witness, I have never been able to tell. His “ turn- 
ing the crab,” and other minor dislocations, were always 
attended with success. It was not an unusual sight at any 
hour of the day to find Melons suspended on a line, or to 
see his venerable head appearing above the roofs of the out- 
houses. Melons knefv the exact height of every fence in 
the vicinity, its facilities for scaling, and the possibility of 
seizure on the other side. His more peaceful and quieter 
amusements consisted in dragging a disused boiler by a 
large string, with hideous outcries, to imaginary fires. 

Melons was not gregarious in his habits. A few youths 
of his own age sometimes called upon him, but they event- 
ually became abusive, and their visits were more strictly 
predatory incursions for old bottles and junk, which formed 
the staple of McGinnis’s Court. Overcome by loneliness, 
one day Melons inveigled a blind harper into the court. 
For two hours did that wretched man prosecute his un- 
hallowed calling, unrecompensed, and going round and 
round the court, apparently under the impression that it 
was some other place, while Melons surveyed him from an 
adjoining fence with calm satisfaction. It was this absence 
of conscientious motives that brought Melons into dis- 
repute with his aristocratic neighbours. Orders were 
issued that no child of wealthy and pious parentage should 
play with him. This mandate, as a matter of course, 
invested Melons with a fascinating interest to them. Admir- 
ing glances were cast at Melons from nursery windows. 
Baby fingers beckoned to him. Invitations to tea (on wood 
and pewter) were lisped to him from aristocratic back-yardii. 

VOL. II. M 


Melons. 


178 

It was evident he was looked upon as a pure and noble 
being, untrammelled by the conventionalities of parentage, 
and physically as well as mentally exalted above them. 
One afternoon an unusual commotion prevailed in the 
vicinity of McGinnis’s Court. Looking from my window, I 
saw Melons perched on the roof of a stable, pulling up a 
rope by which one “ Tommy,” an infant scion of an adjacent 
and wealthy house, was suspended in mid-air. In vain the 
female relatives of Tommy congregated in the back-yard 
expostulated with Melons ; in vain the unhappy father 
shook his fist at him. Secure in his position, Melons re- 
doubled his exertions, and at last landed Tommy on the 
roof. Then it was that the humiliating fact was disclosed 
that Tommy had been acting in collusion with Melons. 
He grinned delightedly back at his parents, as if “ by merit 
raised to that bad eminence.” Long before the ladder 
arrived that was to succour him, he became the sworn ally 
of Melons, and, I regret to say, incited by the same auda- 
cious boy, “ chaffed ” his own flesh and blood below him. 
He was eventually taken, though of course Melons escaped. 
But Tommy was restricted to the window after that, and 
the companionship was limited to “ Hi, Melons ! ” and 
“You, Tommy 1” and Melons, to all practical purposes, 
lost him forever. I looked afterward to see some signs 
of sorrow on Melons’s part, but in vain ; he buried his grief, 
if he had any, somewhere in his one voluminous garment. 

At about this time my opportunities of knowing Melons 
became more extended. I was engaged in filling a void in 
the literature of the Pacific Coast. As this void was a 
pretty large one, and as I was informed that the Pacific 
Coast languished under it, I set apart two hours each day 
to this work of filling in. It was necessary that I should 
adopt a methodicaA system, so I retired from the world and 
locked myself m my room at a certain hour each day, aftei 


Melons. 


179 


coming from my office. I then carefully drew out my port- 
folio and read what I had written the day before. This 
would suggest some alteration, and I would carefully rewrite 
it. During this operation I would turn to consult a book 
of reference, which invariably proved extremely interesting 
and attractive. It would generally suggest another and 
better method of “filling in.” Turning this method over 
reflectively in my mind, I would finally commence the new 
method, which I eventually abandoned for the original plan. 
At this time I would become convinced that my exhausted 
faculties demanded a cigar. The operation of lighting a 
cigar usually suggested that a little quiet reflection and 
meditation would be of service to me, and I always allowed 
myself to be guided by prudential instincts. Eventually, 
seated by my window, as before stated. Melons asserted 
himself. Though our conversation rarely went further than 
“Hello, Mister !” and “Ah, Melons !” a vagabond instinct 
we felt m common implied a communion deeper than words. 
In this spiritual commingling the time passed, often beguiled 
by gymnastics on the fence or line (always with an eye to 
my window), until dinner was announced and I found a 
more practical void required my attention. An unlooked- 
for incident drew us in closer relation. 

A seafaring friend just from a tropical voyage had pre- 
sented me with a bunch of bananas. They were not quite 
ripe, and I hung them before my window to mature in the 
sun of McGinnis’s Court, whose forcing qualities were 
remarkable. In the mysteriously mingled odours of ship 
and shore w-hich they diffused throughout my room there 
was a lingering reminiscence of low latitudes. But even 
that joy was fleeting and evanescent : they never reached 
maturity. 

Coming home one day, as I turned the corner of that 
(ashionable thoroughfare before alluded to, I met a small 


i8o 


Melons, 


boy eating a banana. There was nothing remarkable in 
that, but as I neared McGinnis’s Court I presently met 
another small boy also eating a banana. A third small 
boy engaged in a like occupation obtruded a painful coin- 
cidence upon my mind. I leave the psychological reader 
to determine the exact co-relation between this circumstance 
and the sickening sense of loss that overcame me on wit- 
nessing it. I reached my room — and found the bunch of 
bananas was gone. 

There was but one who knew of their existence, but one 
who frequented my window, but one capable of the 
gymnastic effort to procure them, and that was — I blush to 
say it — Melons. Melons the depredator — Melons, despoiled 
by larger boys of his ill-gotten booty, or reckless and indis- 
creetly liberal ; Melons — now a fugitive on some neighbour- 
ing house-top. I lit a cigar, and drawing my chair to the 
window, sought surcease of sorrow in the contemplation of 
the fish-geranium. In a few moments something white 
passed my window at about the level of the edge. There 
was no mistaking that hoary head, which now represented 
to me only aged iniquity. It was Melons, that venerable, 
juvenile hypocrite ! 

He affected not to observe me, and would have with- 
drawn quietly, but that horrible fascination which causes 
the murderer to revisit the scene of his crime impelled him 
toward my window. I smoked calmly and gazed at him 
without speaking. He walked several times up and down 
the court with a half-rigid, half-belligerent expression of eye 
and shoulder, intended to represent the carelessness of 
innocence. 

Once or twice he stopped, and putting his arms their 
whole length into his capacious trousers, gazed with some 
interest at the additional width they thus acquired. Then 
be whistled. The singular conflicting conditions of Jobi 


Melons. 


i8i 


Brown’s body and soul were at that time beginning to 
attract the attention of youth, and Melons’s performance of 
that melody was always remarkable. But to-day he whistled 
falsely and shrilly between his teeth. At last he met my 
eye. He winced slightly, but recovered himself, and going 
to the fence, stood for a few moments on his hands, with 
his bare feet quivering in the air. Then he turned toward 
me and threw out a conversational preliminary. 

They is a cirkis,” said Melons gravely, hanging with 
his back to the fence and his arms twisted around the 
palings — ** a cirkis over yonder ! ” — indicating the locality 
with his foot — “ with bosses, and hossback riders. They is 
a man wot rides six bosses to onct — six bosses to onct — and 
nary saddle” — and he paused in expectation. 

Even this equestrian novelty did not affect me. I still 
kept a fixed gaze on Melons’s eye, and he began to tremble 
and visibly shrink in his capacious garment. Some other 
desperate means — conversation with Melons was always a 
desperate means — must be resorted to. He recommenced 
more artfully. 

“ Do you know Carrots ? ” 

I had a faint remembrance of a boy of that euphonious 
name, with scarlet hair, who was a playmate and persecutor 
of Melons. But I said nothing. 

“Carrots is a bad boy. Killed a policeman onct. 
Wears a dirk knife in his boots. Saw him to-day looking 
in your windy.” 

I felt that this must end here. I rose sternly and 
addressed Melons. 

“Melons, this is all irrelevant and impertinent to the 
case. You took those bananas. Your proposition regard- 
ing Carrots, even if I were inclined to accept it as credible 
information, does not alter the material issue. You took 
those bananas. The offence under the statutes of California 


i 82 


Melons. 


is felony. How far Carrots may have been accessory to 
the fact either before or after, is not my intention at present 
to discuss. The act is complete. Your present conduct 
shows the animo furandi to have been equally clear.” 

By the time I had finished this exordium, Melons had 
disappeared, as I fully expected. 

He never reappeared The remorse that I have experi- 
enced for the part I had taken in what I fear may have 
resulted in his utter and complete extermination, alas ! he 
may not know, except through these pages. For I have 
never seen him since. Whether he ran away and went to 
sea, to reappear at some future day as the most ancient of 
mariners, or whether he buried himself completely in his 
trousers, I never shall know. I have read the papers 
anxiously for accounts of him. I have gone to the Police 
Office in the vain attempt of identifying him as a lost child 
But I never saw him or heard of him since. Strange fears 
have sometimes crossed my mind that his venerable appear- 
ance may have been actually the result of senility, and that 
he may have been gathered peacefully to his fathers in a 
green old age. I have even had doubts of his existence, 
and have sometimes thought that he was providentially and 
mysteriously offered to fill the void I have before alluded 
to. In that hope I have written these pages. 


( i83 ) 


Z Fcneralilc Jmpogtor, 

As I glance across my table, I am somewhat distracted by 
the spectacle of a venerable head whose crown occasionally 
appears beyond, at about its level. The apparition of a 
very small hand, whose fingers are bunchy and have the 
appearance of being slightly webbed, which is frequently 
lifted above the table in a vain and impotent attempt to 
reach the inkstand, always affects me as a novelty at each 
recurrence of the phenomenon. Yet both the venerable 
head and bunchy fingers belong to an individual with 
whom I am familiar, and to whom, for certain reasons 
hereafter described, I choose to apply the epithet written 
above this article. 

His advent in the family was attended with peculiar 
circumstances. He was received with some concern, 
the number of retainers having been increased by one in 
honour of his arrival. He appeared to be weary, — his 
pretence was that he had come from a long journey, — so 
that for days, weeks, and even months, he did not leave 
his bed except when he was carried. But it was remarkable 
that his appetite was invariably regular and healthy, and 
that his meals, which he required should be brought to 
him, were seldom rejected. During this time he had little 
conversation with the family, his knowledge of our vernacu- 
lar being limited, but occasionally spoke to himself in his 
own language ^ — sl foreign tongue. The difficulties attend- 


1 84 A Venerable Impostor. 

hig this eccentricity were obviated by the young woman 
who had from the first taken him under her protection,— 
being, like the rest of her sex, peculiarly open to imposi- 
tions, — and who at once disorganised her own tongue to 
suit his. This was affected by the contraction of the 
syllables of some words, the addition of syllables to others, 
and an ingenious disregard for tenses and the governing 
powers of the verb. The same singular law which impels 
people in conversation with foreigners to imitate their 
broken English governed the family in their communica- 
tions with him. He received these evidences of his power 
with an indifference not wholly free from scorn. The 
expression of his eye would occasionally denote that his 
higher nature revolted from them. I have no doubt my- 
self that his wants were frequently misinterpreted ; that 
the stretching forth of his hands toward the moon and stars 
might have been the performance of some religious rite 
peculiar to his own country, which was in ours misconstrued 
into a desire for physical nourishment. His repetition of 
the word “goo-goo,” — which was subject to a variety of 
opposite interpretations, — when taken in conjunction with 
his size, in my mind seemed to indicate his aboriginal or 
Aztec origin. 

I incline to this belief as it sustains the impression I 
have already hinted at, that his extreme youth is a simula- 
tion and deceit ; that he is really older and has lived before 
at some remote period, and that his conduct fully justifies 
his title as A Venerable Impostor. A variety of circum- 
stances corroborate this impression: his tottering walk, 
which is a senile as well as a juvenile condition; his 
venerable head, thatched with such imperceptible hair that, 
at a distance, it looks like a mild aureola, and his imperfect 
dental exhibition. But beside these physical peculiarities 
may be observed certain moral symptoms, which go to 


A Venerable Impostor, 185 

disprove his assumed youth. He is in the habit of falling 
into reveries, caused, I have no doubt, by some circum- 
stance which suggests a comparison with his experience in 
his remoter boyhood, or by some serious retrospection of 
the past years. He has been detected lying awake at 
times when he should have been asleep, engaged in 
curiously comparing the bed-clothes, walls, and furniture 
with some recollection of his youth. At such moments he 
has been heard to sing softly to himself fragments of some 
unintelligible composition, which probably still linger in 
his memory as the echoes of a music he has long outgrown. 
He has the habit of receiving strangers with the familiarity 
of one who had met them before, and to whom their 
antecedents and peculiarities were matters of old acquaint- 
ance ; and so unerring is his judgment of their previous 
character, that when he withholds his confidence I am apt 
to withhold mine. It is somewhat remarkable that while 
the maturity of his years and the respect due to them is 
denied by man, his superiority and venerable age is never 
questioned by the brute creation. The dog treats him 
with a respect and consideration accorded to none others, 
and the cat permits a familiarity which I should shudder 
to attempt. It may be considered an evidence of some 
Pantheistic quality in his previous education that he seems 
to recognise a fellowship even in inarticulate objects ; he 
has been known to verbally address plants, flowers, and 
fruit, and to extend his confidence to such inanimate 
objects as chairs and tables. There can be little doubt 
that, in the remote period of his youth, these objects were 
endowed with not only sentient natures, but moral capa- 
bilities, and he is still in the habit of beating them when 
they collide with him, and of pardoning them with a kiss. 

As he has grown older — rather let me say, as we have 
approximated to his years — he has, in spite of the apparent 


1 86 A Venerable Impostor, 

paradox, lost much of his senile gravity. It must be con- 
fessed that some of his actions of late appear to our imper- 
fect comprehension inconsistent with his extreme age. A 
habit of marching up and down with a string tied to a soda- 
water bottle, a disposition to ride anything that could by 
any exercise of the liveliest fancy be made to assume equine 
proportions, a propensity to blacken his venerable white 
hair with ink and coal dust, and an omnivorous appetite, 
which did not stop at chalk, clay, or cinders, were peculiar- 
ities not calculated to excite respect. In fact, he would 
seem to have become demoralised, and when, after a pro- 
longed absence the other day, he was finally discovered 
standing upon the front steps addressing a group of delighted 
children out of his limited vocabulary, the circumstance 
could only be accounted for as the garrulity of age. 

But I lay aside my pen amidst an ominous silence and 
the disappearance of the venerable head from my plane of 
vision. As I step to the other side of the table, I find that 
sleep has overtaken him in an overt act of hoary wickedness. 
The very pages I have devoted to an exposition of his 
deceit he has quietly abstracted, and I find them covered 
with cabalistic figures and wild-looking hieroglyphs traced 
with his forefinger dipped in ink, which doubtless in his own 
language conveys a scathing commentary on my composi- 
tion. But he sleeps peacefully, and there is something in 
his face which tells me that he has already wandered away 
to that dim region of his youth where I cannot follow him. 
And as there comes a strange stirring at my heart when I 
contemplate the immeasurable gulf which lies between us, 
and how slight and feeble as yet is his grasp on this world 
and its strange realities, I find, too late, that I also am a 
willing victim of the Venerable Impostor. 


( i87 ) 


0 150218’ Dog. 

As I lift my eyes from the paper, I observe a dog lying on 
the steps of the opposite house. His attitude might induce 
passers-by and casual observers to believe him to belong to 
the people who live there, and to accord to him a certain 
standing and position. I have seen visitors pat him, under 
the impression that they were doing an act of courtesy to 
his master, he lending himself to the fraud by hypocritical 
contortions of the body. But his attitude is one of deceit 
and simulation. He has neither master nor habitation. He 
is a very Pariah and outcast ; in brief, “ A Boys’ Dog.” 

There is a degree of hopeless and irreclaimable vaga- 
bondage expressed in this epithet, which may not be gener- 
ally understood. Only those who are familiar with the 
roving nature and predatory instincts of boys in large cities 
will appreciate its strength. It is the lowest step in the 
social scale to which a respectable canine can descend. A 
blind man’s dog, or the companion of a knife-grinder, is 
comparatively elevated. He at least owes allegiance to but 
one master. But the Boys’ Dog is the thrall of an entire 
juvenile community, obedient to the beck and call of the 
smallest imp in the neighbourhood, attached to and serving 
oot the individual boy so much as the boy element and 
principle. In their active sports, in small thefts, raids into 
back-yards, window-breaking, and other minor juvenile re- 
creations, he is a full participant. In this way he is the 


i88 


A Boys* Dog. 

reflection of the wickedness of many masters, without 
possessing the virtues or peculiarities of any particular 
one. 

If leading a “dog’s life” be considered a peculiar phase 
of human misery, the life of a Boys’ Dog is still more infe- 
licitous. He is associated in all schemes of wrong-doing, 
and unless he be a dog of experience, is always the scape* 
goat. He never shares the booty of his associates. In 
absence of legitimate amusement, he is considered fair game 
for his companions ; and I have seen him reduced to the 
ignominy of having a tin kettle tied to his tail His ears 
and tail have generally been docked to suit the caprice of 
the unholy band of which he is a member; and if he has any 
pluck, he is invariably pitted against larger dogs in mortal 
combat He is poorly fed and hourly abused ; the reputa- 
tion of his associates debars him from outside sympathies ; 
and once a Boys’ Dog, he cannot change his condition. He 
is not unfrequently sold into slavery by his inhuman com- 
panions. I remember once to have been accosted on my 
own doorsteps by a couple of precocious youths, who offered 
to sell me a dog which they were then leading by a rope. 
The price was extremely moderate, being, if I remember 
rightly, but fifty cents. Imagining the unfortunate animal 
to have lately fallen into their wicked hands, and anxious to 
claim him from the degradation of becoming a Boys’ Dog, 
V was about to conclude the bargain, when I saw a look of 
intelligence pass between the dog and his two masters. I 
promptly stopped all negotiation, and drove the youthful 
swindlers and their four-footed accomplice from my presence. 
The whole thing was perfectly plain. The dog was an old, 
experienced, and hardened Boys’ Dog, and I was perfectly 
satisfied that he would run away and rejoin his old com- 
panions at the first opportunity. This I afterwards learned 
he did, on the occasion of a kind-hearted but unsophisd* 


A Boys' Dog. 189 

cated neighbour buying him ; and a few days ago I saw him 
exposed for sale by those two Arcadians in another neigh- 
bourhood, having been bought and paid for half a dozen 
times in this. 

But, it will be asked, if the life of a Boys* Dog is so un- 
happy, why do they enter upon such an unenviable situa- 
tion, and why do they not dissolve the partnership when it 
becomes unpleasant ? I will confess that I have been often 
puzzled by this question. For some time I could not make 
up my mind whether their unholy alliance was the result of 
the influence of the dog on the boy or vice versa, and which 
was the weakest and most impressible nature. I am satis- 
fied now that at first the dog is undoubtedly influenced 
by the boy, and, as it were, is led, while yet a puppy, from 
the paths of canine rectitude by artfuf and designing boys. 
As he grows older and more experienced in the ways of his 
Bohemian friends, he becomes a willing decoy, and takes 
delight in leading boyish innocence astray, in beguiling 
children to play truant, and thus revenges his own degrada- 
tion on the boy nature generally. It is in this relation, and 
in regard to certain unhallowed practices I have detected 
him in, that I deem it proper to expose to parents and 
guardians the danger to which their offspring is exposed by 
the Boys’ Dog. 

The Boys’ Dog lays his plans artfully. He begins to 
influence the youthful mind by suggestions of unrestrained 
(freedom and frolic which he offers in his own person. He 
will lie in wait at the garden gate for a very small boy, and 
endeavour to lure him outside its sacred precincts by 
gambolling and jumping a little beyond the enclosure. He 
will set off on an imaginary chase and run around the block 
in a perfectly frantic manner, and then return, breathless, 
to his former position, with a look as of one who would say, 
^ There 1 you see how perfectly easy it’s done 1 ” Should 


190 


A Boys' Dog, 

the unhappy infant find it difficult to resist the effect which 
this glimpse' of the area of freedom produces, and step be- 
yond the gate, from that moment he is utterly demoralised. 
The Boys’ Dog owns him body and soul. Straightway he 
is led by the deceitful briite into the unhallowed circle of 
his Bohemian masters. Sometimes the unfortunate boy, if 
he be very small, turns up eventually at the station-house as 
a lost child. Whenever I meet a stray boy in the street 
looking utterly bewildered and astonished, I generally find 
a Boys’ Dog lurking on the corner. When I read the 
advertisements of lost children, I always add mentally to 
the description, “was last seen in company with a Boys’ 
Dog.” Nor is his influence wholly confined to small boys. 
I have seen him waiting patiently for larger boys on the way 
to school, and by artful and sophistical practices inducing 
them to play truant. I have seen him lying at the school- 
house door, with the intention of enticing the children on 
their way home to distant and remote localities. He has 
led many an unsuspecting boy to the wharves and quays by 
assuming the character of a water-dog, which he was not, 
and again has induced others to go with him on a gunning 
excursion by pretending to be a sporting dog, in which 
quality he was knowingly deficient. Unscrupulous, hypo- 
critical, and deceitful, he has won many children’s hearts 
by answering to any name they might call him, attaching 
himself to their persons until they got into trouble, and 
ieserting them at the very moment they most needed his 
assistance. I have seen him rob small schoolboys of their 
dinners by pretending to knock them down by accident; 
and have seen larger boys in turn dispossess him of his ill- 
gotten booty for their own private gratification. From 
being a tool he has grown to be an accomplice ; through 
much imposition, he has learned to impose on others ; ia 
bis best character he is simply a vagabond’s vagabond 


A Boys' Dog. 191 

I could find it in my heart to pity him as he lies there 
through the long summer afternoon, enjoying brief intervals 
of tranquillity and rest, which he surreptitiously snatches 
from a stranger’s door-step. For a shrill whistle is heard in 
the streets, the boys are coming home from school, and he 
is startled from his dreams by a deftly thrown potato, which 
hits him on the head, and awakens him to the stern reality 
that he is now and forever — a Boys’ Dog. 


( »9a ) 


fSurprtflfing HOtjentucciei of ^agter 
Cfiarleo ©ummerton. 

At exactly half-past nine o’clock on the morning of Satur- 
day, August 26, 1865, Master Charles Summerton, aged 
five years, disappeared mysteriously from his paternal 
residence on Folsom Street, San Francisco. At twenty-five 
minutes past nine he had been observed by the butcher 
amusing himself by going through that popular youthful 
exercise known as “ turning the crab,” a feat in which he 
was singularly proficient. At a court of inquiry summarily 
held in the back-parlour at 10.15, Bridget, cook, deposed 
to have detected him at twenty minutes past nine in the 
felonious abstraction of sugar from the pantry, which, by 
the same token, had she known what was a-comin, she’d 
have never previnted. Patsey, a shrill-voiced youth from a 
neighbouring alley, testified to have seen “ Chowley ” at 
half-past nine in front of the butcher’s shop round the 
corner ; but as this young gentleman chose to throw out the 
gratuitous belief that the missing child had been converted 
into sausages by the butcher, his testimony was received 
with some caution by the female portion of the court, and 
with downright scorn and contumely by its masculine 
nembers. But whatever might have been the hour of his 
departure, it was certain that from half-past nine a.m. until 
nine p.m., when he was brought home by a policeman, 


Surprising Adventures. 193 

Charles Summerton was missing. Being naturally of a 
reticent disposition, he has since resisted^ with but one 
exception, any attempt to wrest from him a statement of 
his whereabouts during that period. That exception has 
been myself. He has related to me the following in *he 
strictest confidence. 

His intention on leaving the door-steps of his dwelling 
was to proceed without delay to Van Diemen’s Land, by 
way of Second and Market Streets. This project was 
subsequently modified so far as to permit a visit to 
Otaheite, where Captain Cook was killed. The outfit for 
his voyage consisted of two car-tickets, five cents in silver, 
a fishing-line, the brass capping of a spool of cotton, which 
in his eyes bore some resemblance to metallic currency, 
and a Sunday-school library ticket. His garments, admir- 
ably adapted to the exigencies of any climate, were severally 
a straw hat with a pink ribbon, a striped shirt, over which a 
pair of trousers, uncommonly wide in comparison to their 
length, were buttoned, striped balmoral stockings, which 
gave his youthful legs something of the appearance of 
wintergreen candy, and copper-toed shoes with iron heels, 
capable of striking fire from any flagstone. This latter 
quality. Master Charley could not help feeling, would be 
of infinite service to him in the wilds of Van Diemen’s 
Land, which, as pictorially represented in his geography, 
seemed to be deficient in corner groceries and matches. 

Exactly as the clock struck the half-hour, the short legs 
and straw hat of Master Charles Summerton disappeared 
around the corner. He ran rapidly, partly by way of 
inuring himself to the fatigues of the journey before him, 
and partly by way of testing his speed with that of a North 
Beach car which was proceeding in his direction. The 
conductor, not being aware of this generous and lofty emu- 
lation, and being ^jmewhat concerned at the spectacle of * 

VOL. II. N 


% 


194 Surprising Adventures. 

pair of very short twinkling legs so far in the rear, stopped 
his car and generously assisted the youthful Summerton 
upon the platform. From this point a hiatus of several 
hours’ duration occurs in Charles’s narrative. He is under 
the impression that he “ rode out ” not only his two tickets, 
but that he became subsequently indebted to the Company 
for several trips to and from the opposite termini, and that 
at last, resolutely refusing to give any explanation of his 
conduct, he was finally ejected, much to his relief, on a 
street corner. Although, as he informs us, he felt perfectly 
satisfied with this arrangement, he was impelled under the 
circumstances to hurl after the conductor an opprobrious 
appellation which he had ascertained from Patsey was the 
correct thing in such emergencies, and possessed peculiarly 
exasperating properties. 

We now approach a thrilling part of the narrative, before 
which most of the adventures of the “ Boys’ Own Book ” 
pale into insignificance. There are times when the recol- 
lection of this adventure causes Master Charles to break 
out in a cold sweat, and he has several times since its 
occurrence been awakened by lamentations and outcries in 
the night season by merely dreaming of it. On the corner 
of the street lay several large empty sugar hogsheads. A 
few young gentlemen disported themselves therein, armed 
with sticks, with which they removed the sugar which still 
adhered to the joints of the staves, and conveyed it to their 
mouths. Finding a cask not yet pre-empted. Master Charles 
set to work, and for a few moments revelled in a wild 
saccharine dream, whence he was finally roused by an 
angry voice and the rapidly retreating footsteps of his com- 
rades. An ominous sound smote his ear, and the next 
moment he felt the cask wherein he lay uplifted and set 
upright against the wall He was a prisoner, but as yet 
undiscovered. Being satisfied in his mind that hanging 


Surprising Adventures, 195 

was the systematic and legalised penalty for the outrage he 
had committed, he kept down manfully the cry that rose 
to his lips. 

In a few moments he felt the cask again lifted by a 
powerful hand, which appeared above him at the edge of 
his prison, and which he concluded belonged to the fero- 
cious giant Blunderbore, whose features and limbs he had 
frequently met in coloured pictures. Before he could 
recover from his astonishment, his cask was placed with 
several others on a cart, and rapidly driven away. The 
ride which ensued he describes as being fearful in the 
extreme. Rolled around like a pill in a box, the agonies 
which he suffered may be hinted at, not spoken. Evidences 
of that protracted struggle were visible in his garments, 
which were of the consistency of syrup, and his hair, which 
for several hours, under the treatment of hot water, yielded 
a thin treacle. At length the cart stopped on one of the 
wharves, and the cartman began to unload. As he tilted 
over the cask in which Charles lay, an exclamation broke 
from his lips, and the edge of the cask fell from his hands, 
sliding its late occupant upon the wharf. To regain his 
short legs, and to put the greatest possible distance between 
himself and the cartman, were his first movements on 
regaining his liberty. He did not stop until he reached 
the corner of Front Street. 

Another blank succeeds in this veracious history. He 
cannot remember how or when he found himself in front of 
the circus tent He has an indistinct recollection of having 
passed through a long street of stores which were all closed, 
and which made him fear that it was Sunday, and that he 
had spent a miserable night in the sugar cask. But he 
remembers hearing the sound of music within the tent, and 
of creeping on his hands and knees, when no one was look- 
ing, until he passed under the canvas. His description of 


196 Surprising Adventures, 

the wonders contained within that circle ; of the terrific feats 
which were performed by a man on a pole, since practised 
by him in the back-yard ; of the horses, one of which was 
spotted and resembled an animal in his Noah’s Ark, hitherto 
unrecognised and undefined ; of the female equestrians, 
whose dresses could only be equalled in magnificence by 
the frocks of his sister’s doll ; of the painted clown, whose 
jokes excited a merriment somewhat tinged by an unde- 
fined fear, was an effort of language which this pen could 
but weakly transcribe, and which no quantity of exclama- 
tion points could sufficiently illustrate. He is not quite 
certain what followed. He remembers that almost imme- 
diately on leaving the circus it became dark, and that he 
fell asleep, waking up at intervals on the corners of the 
streets, on front steps, in somebody’s arms, and finally in his 
own bed. He was not aware of experiencing any regret for 
his conduct ; he does not recall feeling at any time a dis- 
position to go home ; he remembers distinctly that he felt 
hungry. 

He has made this disclosure in confidence. He wishes 
it to be respected. He wants to know if you have five 
cents about you. 


( i97 ) 


Cfie ^fesion Dolom 

The Mission Dolores is destined to be “ The Last Sigh ” 
of the native Californian. When the last “ Greaser ” shall 
indolently give way to the bustling Yankee, I can imagine 
he will, like the Moorish king, ascend one of the Mission 
hills to take his last lingering look at the hilled city. For 
a long time he will cling tenaciously to Pacific Street. He 
will delve in the rocky fastnesses of Telegraph Hill until 
progress shall remove it. He will haunt Vallejo Street, and 
those back slums which so vividly typify the degradation of 
a people ; but he will eventually make way for improvement 
The Mission will be last to drop from his nerveless fingers. 

As I stand here this pleasant afternoon, looking up at 
the old chapel, — its ragged senility contrasting with the 
smart spring sunshine, its two gouty pillars with the plaster 
dropping away like tattered bandages, its rayless windows, 
its crumbling entrances, the leper spots on its whitewashed 
wall eating through the dark adobe, — I give the poor old 
mendicant but a few years longer to sit by the highway and 
ask alms in the names of the blessed saints. Already the 
vicinity is haunted with the shadow of its dissolution. The 
shriek of the locomotive discords with the Angelus belL 
An Episcopal church, of a green Gothic type, with massive 
buttresses of Oregon pine, even now mocks its hoary age 
with imitation and supplants it with a sham. Vain, alas I 
were those rural accessories, the nurseries and markel- 


The Mission Dolores. 


198 

gardens, that once gathered about its walls and resisted 
civic encroachment. They too are passing away. Even 
those queer little adobe buildings with tiled roofs like longi- 
tudinal slips of cinnamon, and walled enclosures sacredly 
guarding a few bullock horns and strips of hide. I look in 
vain for the half-reclaimed Mexican, whose respectability 
stopped at his waist, and whose red sash under his vest was 
the utter undoing of his black broadcloth. I miss, too, 
those black-haired women, with swaying unstable busts, 
whose dresses were always unseasonable in texture and 
pattern ; whose wearing of a shawl was a terrible awakening 
from the poetic dream of the Spanish mantilla. Traces of 
another nationality are visible. The railroad “ navvy ” has 
built his shanty near the chapel and smokes his pipe in 
the Posada. Gutturals have taken the place of linguals and 
sibilants. I miss the half-chanted, half-drawled cadences 
that used to mingle with the cheery “ All aboard ” of the 
stage- driver, in those good old days when the stages ran 
hourly to the Mission, and a trip thither was an excursion. 
At the very gates of the temple, in the place of those “ who 
sell doves for sacrifice,” a vender of mechanical spiders has 
halted with his unhallowed wares. Even the old Padre — 
last type of the missionary, and descendant of the good 
Junipero — I cannot find to-day ; in his stead a light-haired 
Celt is reading a lesson from a Vulgate that is wonderfully 
replete with double r’s. Gentle priest, in thy R-isons, let 
the stranger and heretic be remembered. 

I open a little gate and enter the Mission churchyard. 
There is no change here, though perhaps the graves lie 
closer together. A willow-tree growing beside the deep 
brown wall has burst into tufted plumes in the fulness of 
spring. The tall grass blades over each mound show a 
strange quickening of the soil below. It is pleasanter here 
than on the bleak mountain seaward, where distracting 


The Mission Dolores. 


199 


mnds continually bring the strife and turmoil of the oceaa 
The Mission hills lovingly embrace the little cemetery, 
whose decorative taste is less ostentatious. The foreign 
flavour is strong ; here are never-failing garlands of it7i7nor 
tellesy with their sepulchral spicery; here are little cheap 
medallions of pewter, with the adornment of three black 
tears, that would look like the three of clubs, but that the 
simple humility of the inscription counterbalances all sense 
of the ridiculous. Here are children’s graves with guardian 
angels of great specific gravity ; but here, too, are the little 
one’s toys in a glass case beside them. Here is the average 
quantity of execrable original verses ; but one stanza — over 
a sailor’s grave — is striking, for it expresses a hope of salva- 
tion through the “ Lord High Admiral Christ ! ” Over the 
foreign graves there is a notable lack of scriptural quotation, 
and an increase, if I may say it, of humanity and tenderness. 
I cannot help thinking that too many of my countrymen 
are influenced by a morbid desire to make a practical point 
of this occasion, and are too apt hastily to crowd a whole 
life of omission into the culminating act But when I see 
the grey ir7i77iortelles crowning a tombstone, I know I shall 
find the mysteries of the resurrection shown rather in 
symbols, and only the love taught in His new command- 
ment left for the graphic touch. But “ they manage these 
things better in France.” 

During my purposeless ramble the sun has been steadily 
climbing the brown wall of the church, and the air seems 
to grow cold and raw. The bright green dies out of the 
grass and the rich bronze comes down from the wall The 
willow-tree seems half inclined to doff its plumes, and wears 
the dejected air of a broken faith and violated trust. The 
spice of the mwiortelles mixes with the incense that steals 
through the open window. Within, the barbaric gilt and 
crimson look cold and cheap in this searching air ; by this 


200 


The Mission Dolores. 


light the church certainly is old and ugly. I cannot help 
wondering whether the old Fathers, if they ever revisit the 
scene of their former labours, in their larger comprehen- 
sions ■ view with regret the impending change, or mourn 
over the day when the Mission Dolores shall appropriately 
cooae to grief? 


^ 301 ) 


TBoontser. 

I NEVER knew how the subject of this memoir came to 
attach himself so closely to the affections of my family. 
He was not a prepossessing dog. He was not a dog of 
even average birth and breeding. His pedigree was in- 
volved in the deepest obscurity. He may have had brothers 
and sisters, but in the whole range of my canine acquaint- 
ance (a pretty extensive one), I never detected any of 
Boonder's peculiarities in any other of his species. His 
body was long, and his fore-legs and hind-legs were very 
wide apart, as though Nature originally intended to put an 
extra pair between them, but had unwisely allowed herself 
to be persuaded out of it. This peculiarity was annoying 
on cold nights, as it always prolonged the interval of keep- 
ing the door open for Boonder’s ingress long enough to 
allow two or three dogs of a reasonable length to enter. 
Boonder’s feet were decided ; his toes turned out consider- 
ably, and in repose his favourite attitude was the first posi- * 
tion of dancing. Add to a pair of bright eyes ears that 
seemed to belong to some other dog, and a symmetrically 
pointed nose that fitted all apertures like a pass-key, and 
you have Boonder as we knew, him. 

I am inclined to think that his popularity was mainly 
owing to* his quiet impudence. His advent in the family 
was that of an old member who had been absent for a short 


202 


Boonder, 


time, but had returned to familiar haunts and associations. 
In a Pythagorean point of view this might have been the 
case, but I cannot recall any deceased member of the 
family who was in life partial to bone-burying (though it 
might be post mortem a consistent amusement), and this 
was Boonder’s great weakness. He was at first discovered 
coiled up on a rug in an upper chamber, and was the least 
disconcerted of the entire household. From that moment 
Boonder became one of its recognised members, and privi- 
leges, often denied the most intelligent and valuable of his 
species, were quietly taken by him and submitted to by us. 
Thus, if he were found coiled up in a clothes-basket, or any 
article of clothing assumed locomotion on its own account, 
we only said, “ Oh, it’s Boonder ! ” with a feeling of relief 
that it was nothing worse. 

I have spoken of his fondness for bone-burying. It could 
not be called an economical faculty, for he invariably forgot 
the locality of his treasure, and covered the garden with 
purposeless holes ; but although the violets and daisies were 
not improved by Boonder’s gardening, no one ever thought 
of punishing him. He became a synonym for Fate; a 
Boonder to be grumbled at, to be accepted philosophically, 

■ — but never to be averted. But although he was not an 
intelligent dog, nor an ornamental dog, he possessed some 
gentlemanly instincts. When he performed his only feat, — 
begging upon his hind legs (and looking remarkably like a 
penguin), — ignorant strangers would offer him crackers or 
cake, which he didn’t like, as a reward of merit. Boonder 
always made a great show of accepting the proffered dainties, 
and even made hypocritical contortions as if swallowing, but 
always deposited the morsel when he was unobserved in 
the first convenient receptacle, — usually the visitors over- 
shoes. 

In matters that did not involve courtesy, Boonder wai 


Boonder, 


203 

sincere in his likes and dislikes. He was instinctively 
opposed to the railroad. When the track was laid through 
our street, Boonder maintained a defiant attitude toward 
every rail as it went down, and resisted the cars shortly 
after to the fullest extent of his lungs. I have a vivid 
recollection of seeing him, on the day of the trial trip, 
come down the street in front of the car, barking himself 
out of all shape, and thrown back several feet by the recoil 
of each bark. But Boonder was not the only one who has 
resisted innovations, or has lived to see the innovation 
prosper and even crush. But I am anticipating. Boonder 
had previously resisted the gas, but although he spent one 
whole day in angry altercation with the workmen, — leaving 
his bones unburied and bleaching in the sun, — somehow 
the gas went in. The Spring Valley water was likewise 
unsuccessfully opposed, and the grading of an adjoining 
lot was for a long time a personal matter between Boonder 
and the contractor. 

These peculiarities seemed to evince some decided char- 
acter and embody some idea. A prolonged debate in the 
family upon this topic resulted in an addition to his name, 
— we called him “ Boonder the Conservative,” with a faint 
acknowledgment of his fateful power. But, although 
Boonder had his own way, his path was not entirely of 
roses. Thorns sometimes pricked his sensibilities. When 
certain minor chords were struck on the piano, Boonder 
was always painfully affected and howled a remonstrance. 
If he were removed for company’s sake to the back-yard, 
at the recurrence of the provocation he would go his whole 
length (which was something) to improvise a howl that 
should reach the performer. But we got accustomed 
to Boonder, and as we were fond of music, the playing 
went 00. 


204 


Boonder. 


One morning Boonder left the house in good spirits with 
his regular bone in his mouth, and apparently the usual 
intention of burying it. The next day he was picked up 
lifeless on the track, — run over apparently by the first car 
that went out of the depot 


< 205 ) 


JFrom a TBalcong. 

The little stone balcony which, by a popular fallacy, is 
supposed to be a necessary appurtenance of my window, 
has long been to me a source of curious interest. The fact 
that the asperities of our summer weather will not permit 
me to use it but once or twice in six months does not alter 
my concern for this incongruous ornament. It affects me 
as I suppose the conscious possession of a linen coat or a 
pair of nankeen trousers might affect a sojourner here who 
has not entirely outgrown his memory of Eastern summer 
heat and its glorious compensations, — a luxurious provi- 
dence against a possible but by no means probable con- 
tingency. I no longer wonder at the persistency with 
which San Franciscans adhere to this architectural super- 
fluity in the face of climatical impossibilities. The bal- 
conies in which no one sits, the piazzas on which no one 
lounges, are timid advances made to a climate whose 
churlishness we are trying to temper by an ostentation of 
confidence. Ridiculous as this spectacle is at all seasons, 
it is never more so than in that bleak interval between 

A 

sunset and dark, when the shrill scream of the factory 
whistle seems to have concentrated all the hard, unsym- 
pathetic quality of the climate into one vocal expression. 

Add to this the appearance of one or two pedestrians, 
manifestly too late for their dinners, and tasting in the 
mrewish air a bitter premonition of the welcome that 


206 From a Balcony, 

awaits them at home, and you have one of those ordinary 
views from my balcony which makes the balcony itself 
ridiculous. 

But as I lean over its balustrade to-night — a night rare in 
its kindness and beauty — and watch the fiery ashes of my 
cigar drop into the abysmal darkness below, I am inclined 
to take back the whole of that preceding paragraph, although 
it cost me some labour to elaborate its polite malevo- 
lence. I can even recognise some melody in the music 
which comes irregularly and fitfully from the balcony of the 
Museum on Market Street, although it may be broadly stated 
that, as a general thing, the music of all museums, mena- 
geries, and circuses becomes greatly demoralised, — possibly 
through associations with the beasts. So soft and courteous 
is this atmosphere that I have detected the flutter of one or 
two light dresses on the adjacent balconies and piazzas, and 
the front parlour windows of a certain aristocratic mansion 
in the vicinity, which have always maintained a studious 
reserve in regard to the interior, to-night are suddenly 
thrown into the attitude of familiar disclosure. A few 
young people are strolling up the street with a lounging step 
which is quite a relief to that usual brisk, business-like pace 
which the chilly nights impose upon even the most senti- 
mental lovers. The genial influences of the air are not 
restricted to the opening of shutters and front doors ; other 
and more gentle disclosures are made, no doubt, beneath 
this moonlight The bonnet and hat which passed beneath 
my balcony a few moments ago were suspiciously close 
together. I argued from this that my friend the editor will 
probably receive any quantity of verses for his next issue, 
containing allusions to “ Luna,” in which the original 
epithet of “ silver ” will be applied to this planet, and that 
a “ boon ” will be asked for the evident purpose of rhyming 
with “ moon,” and for no other. Should neither of the 


From a Balcony. 2Q7 

parties be equal to this expression, the pent-up feelings of 
the heart will probably find vent later in the ‘evening over 
the piano, in “ I Wandered by the Brookside,” or “ When 
the Moon on the Lake is Beaming.” But it has been per- 
mitted me to hear the fulfilment of my prophecy even as it 
was uttered. From the window of number Twelve Hun- 
dred and Seven gushes upon the slumberous misty air the 
maddening ballad “ Ever of Thee,” while at Twelve Hun- 
dred and Eleven the “ Star of the Evening ” rises with a 
chorus. I am inclined to think that there is something in 
the utter vacuity of the refrain in this song which especially 
commends itself to the young. The simple statement, 
“ Star of the Evening,” is again and again repeated with an 
imbecile relish ; while the adjective “ beautiful ” recurs with 
a steady persistency too exasperating to dwell upon here. 
At occasional intervals a bass voice enunciates “ Star-r ! 
Star-r ! ” as a solitary and independent effort. Sitting here 
in my balcony, I picture the possessor of that voice as a 
small, stout young man, standing a little apart from the 
other singers, with his hands behind him under his coat- 
tail, and a severe expression of countenance. He some- 
times leans forward, with a futile attempt to read the music 
over somebody else’s shoulder, but always resumes his old 
severity of attitude before singing his part. Meanwhile the 
celestial subjects of this choral adoration look down upon the 
scene with a tranquillity and patience which can only result 
from the security with which their immeasurable remoteness 
invests them. I would remark that the stars are not the 
only topics subject to this “damnable iteration.” A certain 
popular song, which contains the statement, “I will not 
forget you, mother,” apparently reposes all its popularity 
on the constant and dreary repetition of this unim- 
portant information, which at least produces the desired 
result among the audience. If the best operatic choruses 


2o8 From a Balcofiy. 

are not above this weakness, the unfamiliar language in 
which they are sung offers less violation to common sense. 

It may be parenthetically stated here that the songs 
alluded to above may be found in sheet music on the top 
of the piano of any young lady who has just come from 
boarding-school. “ I'he Old Arm-Chair,” or “ Woodman, 
Spare that Tree,” will be also found in easy juxtaposition. 
The latter songs are usually brought into service at the 
instance of an uncle or bachelor brother, whose request is 
generally prefaced by a remark depreciatory of the opera, 
and the gratuitous observation that we are retrograding, 
sir, — retrograding,” and that “there is no music like the 
old songs.” He sometimes condescends to accompany 
“ Marie ” in a tremulous barytone, and is particularly for- 
cible in those passages where the word “ repeat ” is written, 
for reasons stated above. When the song is over, to the 
success of which he feels he has materially contributed, he 
will inform you that “ you may talk of your ‘ arias ’ and your 
‘romanzas,’ but for music, sir, — music — ” at which point 
he becomes incoherent and unintelligible. It is this gentle- 
man who suggests “ China ” or “ Brattle Street ” as a 
suitable and cheerful exercise for the social circle. There 
are certain amatory songs, of an arch and coquettish 
character, familiar to these localities, which the young lady, 
being called upon to sing, declines with a bashful and 
tantalising hesitation. Prominent among these may be 
mentioned an erotic effusion entitled “ I’m Talking in my 
Sleep,” which, when sung by a young person vivaciously 
and with appropriate glances, can be made to drive lan- 
quishing swains to the verge of madness. Ballads of this 
quality afford splendid opportunities for bold young men, 
who, by ejaculating “ Oh ! ” and “ Ah ! ” at the affecting 
passages, frequently gain a fascinating reputation for wil<^ 
ness and scepticism. 


209 


^ From a Balcony, 

But the music which called up these parenthetical reflec- 
tiont has died away, and with it the slight animosities it 
inspired. The last song has been sung, the piano closed, 
the lights are withdrawn from the windows, and the 
white skirts flutter away from stoops and balconies. 
The silence is broken only by the rattle and rumble of 
carriages coming from theatre and opera. I fancy that this 
sound — which, seeming to be more distinct at this hour 
than at any other time, might be called one of the civic 
voices of the night — has certain urbane suggestions not un- 
pleasant to those born and bred in large cities. The moon, 
round and full, gradually usurps the twinkling lights of the 
city, that one by one seem to fade away and be absorbed 
in her superior lustre. The distant Mission hills are out- 
lined against the sky, but through one gap the outlying fog 
which has stealthily invested us seems to have effected a 
breach, and only waits the co-operation of the laggard sea- 
breezes to sweep down and take the beleaguered city by 
assault An ineffable calm sinks over the landscape. In 
the magical moonlight the shot-tower loses its angular out- 
line and practical relations, and becomes a minaret from 
^whose balcony an invisible muezzin calls the Faithful to 
prayer. “Prayer is better than sleep.” But what is this? 
A shuffle of feet on the pavement, a low hum of voices, a 
twang of some diabolical instrument, a preliminary hem 
and cough. Heavens ! it cannot be ! Ah ! yes it is — it is 
— serenaders ! 

Anathema Maranatha ! May purgatorial pains seize ye, 
William Count of Poitou, Girard de Boreuil, Arnaud de 
Marviel, Bertrand de Born, mischievous progenitors of 
jongleurs, troubadours, provengals, minnesingers, minstrels, 
and singers of cansos and love-chants ! Confusion overtake 
and confound your modern descendants, the “ metre ballad- 
mongers,” who carry the shamelessness of the Middle Ages 

VQL. II. ^ 


210 From a Balcony, 

into the nineteenth century, and awake a sleeping neigh- 
bourhood to the brazen knowledge of their loves and wan- 
ton fancies ! Destruction and demoralisation pursue these 
pitiable imitators of a barbarous age, when ladies’ names and 
charms were shouted through the land, and modest maiden 
never lent presence to tilt or tourney without hearing a 
chronicle of her virtues go round the lists, shouted by 
wheezy heralds and taken up by roaring swashbucklers! 
Perdition overpower such ostentatious wooers ! Marry ! 
shall I shoot the amorous feline who nightly iterates his 
love-songs on my roof, and yet withhold my trigger-finger 
from yonder pranksome gallant ? Go to ! here is an orange 
left of last week’s repast. Decay hath overtaken it, — it 
possesseth neither savour nor cleanliness. Ha ! cleverly 
thrown ! A hit — a palpable hit ! Peradventure I have still 
a boot that hath done me service, and, barring a looseness 
of the heel, an ominous yawning at the side, ’tis in good 
case! Na’theless, ’twill serve. Sol sol What I dispersed ? 
Nay, then I too will retire 1 


( 211 ) 


Jofin €I)tnaman. 

The expression of the Chinese face in the aggregate is 
neither cheerful nor happy. In an acquaintance of half a 
dozen years, I can only recall one or two exceptions to this 
rule. There is an abiding consciousness of degradation, 
a secret pain or self-humiliation visible in the lines of the 
mouth and eye. Whether it is only a modification of Turk- 
ish gravity, or whether it is the dread Valley of the Shadow 
of the Drug through which they are continually straying, I 
cannot say. They seldom smile, and their laughter is of 
such an extraordinary and sardonic nature — so purely a 
mechanical spasm, quite independent of any mirthful attri- 
bute — that to this day I am doubtful whether I ever saw a 
Chinaman laugh. A theatrical representation by natives, 
one might think, would have set my mind at ease on this 
point ; but it did not. Indeed, a new difficulty presented 
itself, — the impossibility of determining whether the perfor- 
mance was a tragedy or farce. I thought I detected the 
low comedian in an active youth who turned two somer- 
saults and knocked everybody down on entering the stage. 
.But, unfortunately, even this classic resemblance to the 
legitimate farce of our civilisation was deceptive. Another 
brocaded actor, who represented the hero of the play, turned 
three somersaults, and not only upset my theory and his 
fellow-actors at the same time, but apparently ran a-muck 
behind the scenes for some time afterward. I looked 


212 


John Chinaman. 

around at the glinting white teeth to observe ‘he effect 
these two palpable hits. They were received with equal 
acclamation, and apparently equal facial spasms. One or 
two beheadings which enlivened the play produced the 
same sardonic effect, and left upon my mind a painful 
anxiety to know what was the serious business of life in 
China. It was noticeable, however, that my unrestrained 
laughter had a discordant effect, and that triangular eyes 
sometimes turned ominously toward the “ Fanqui devil ; ” 
but as I retired discreetly before the play was finished, there 
were no serious results. I have only given the above as an 
instance of the impossibility of deciding upon the outward 
and superficial expression of Chinese mirth. Of its inner 
and deeper existence I have some private doubts. An 
audience that will view with a serious aspect the hero, 
after a frightful and agonising death, get up and quietly 
walk off the stage, cannot be said to have remarkable per- 
ceptions of the ludicrous. 

I have often been struck with the delicate pliability of 
the Chinese expression and taste, that might suggest a 
broader and deeper criticism than is becoming these pages. 
A Chinaman will adopt the American costume, and wear it 
with a taste of colour and detail that will surpass those 
“ native and to the manner born.” To look at a Chinese 
slipper, one might imagine it impossible to shape the 
original foot to anything less cumbrous and roomy, yet a 
neater-fitting boot than that belonging to the Americanised 
Chinaman is rarely seen on this side of the Continent. 
When the loose sack or paletot takes the place of his 
brocade blouse, it is worn with a refinement and grace that 
might bring a jealous pang to the exquisite of our more 
refined civilisation. Pantaloons fall easily and naturally 
over legs that have known unlimited freedom and baggi* 
ness, and even garrote collars meet correctly around suo 


213 


John Chinaman, 

tanned throats. The new expression seldom overflows in 
gaudy cravats. I will back my Americanised Chinaman 
against any neophyte of European birth in the choice of 
that article. While in our own State the Greaser resists 
one by one the garments of the Northern invader, and even 
wears the livery of his conqueror with a wild and buttonless 
freedom, the Chinaman, abused and degraded as he is, 
changes by correctly graded transition to the garments of 
Christian civilisation. There is but one article of European 
wear that he avoids. These Bohemian eyes have never yet 
been pained by the spectacle of a tall hat on the head of an 
intelligent Chinaman. 

My acquaintance with John has been made up of weekly 
interviews, involving the adjustment of the washing accounts, 
so that I have not been able to study his character from 
a social view-point, or observe him in the privacy of the 
domestic circle. I have gathered enough to justify me in 
believing him to be generally honest, faithful, simple, and 
painstaking. Of his simplicity let me record an instance, 
where a sad and civil young Chinaman brought me certain 
shirts with most of the buttons missing, and others hanging 
on delusively by a single thread. In a moment of un- 
guarded irony I informed him that unity would at least 
have been preserved if the buttons were removed altogether. 
He smiled sadly and went away. I thought I had hurt 
his feelings, until the next week, when he brought me my 
shirts with a look of intelligence, and the buttons carefully 
and totally erased. At another time, to guard against his 
general disposition to carry off anything as soiled clothes 
that he thought could hold water, I requested him to 
always wait until he saw me. Coming home late one 
evening, I found the household in great consternation 
over an immovable Celestial, who had remained seated on 
the front doorstep during the day, sad and submissive. 


214 John Chinaman, 

firm but also patient, and only betraying any animation of 
token of his mission when he saw me coming. This same 
Chinaman evinced some evidences of regard for a little 
girl in the family, who in her turn reposed such faith in 
his intellectual qualities as to present him with a prdter- 
naturally uninteresting Sunday-school book, her own pro- 
perty. This book John made a point of carrying' ostenta- 
tiously with him in his weekly visits. It appeared usually 
on the top of the clean clothes, and was sometimes painfully 
clasped outside of the big bundle of solid linen. Whether 
John believed he unconsciously imbibed some spiritual life 
through its pasteboard cover, as the Prince in the “ Arabian 
Nights ” imbibed the medicine through the handle of the 
mallet, or whether he wished to exhibit a due sense of 
gratitude, or whether he hadn’t any pockets, I have never 
been able to ascertain. In his turn, he would sometimes 
cut marvellous imitation roses from carrots for his little 
friend. I am inclined to think that the few roses strewn 
in John’s path were such scentless imitations. The thorns 
only were real From the persecutions of the young and 
old of a certain class, his life was a torment. I don’t know 
what was the exact philosophy that Confucius taught, but 
it is to be hoped that poor John in his persecution is still 
able to detect the conscious hate and fear with which 
inferiority always regards the possibility of even-handed 
justice, and which is the keynote to the vulgar clamour 
about servile and degraded races. 


( 2‘5 ) 


On a Fulgar Eittle TBop. 

The subject of this article is at present leaning against a 
tree directly opposite to my window. He wears his cap 
with the wrong side before, apparently for no other object 
than that which seems the most obvious, — of showing more 
than the average quantity of very dirty face. His clothes, 
which are worn with a certain buttonless ease and freedom, 
display in the different quality of their fruit-stains a pleas- 
ing indication of the progress of the seasons. The nose of 
this vulgar little boy turns up at the end. I have noticed 
this in several other vulgar little boys, although it is by no 
means improbable that youthful vulgarity may be present 
without this facial peculiarity. Indeed, I am inclined to 
the belief that it is rather the result of early inquisitiveness 
—of furtive pressures against window-panes, and of looking 
over fences, or of the habit of biting large apples hastily 
— than an indication of scorn or juvenile supercilious- 
ness. The vulgar little boy is more remarkable for his 
obtrusive familiarity. It is my experience of his predis- 
position to this quality which has induced me to write this 
jirticle. 

My acquaintance with him began in a moment of weak- 
ness. I have an unfortunate predilection to cultivate 
originality in people, even when accompanied by objection- 


2 1 6 On a Vulgar Little Boy, 

able character. But, as I lack the firmness and skilfulness 
which usually accompany this taste in others, and enable 
them to drop acquaintances when troublesome, I have sur- 
rounded myself with divers unprofitable friends, among 
whom I count the vulgar little boy. The manner in which 
he first attracted my attention was purely accidental. He 
was playing in the street, and the driver of a passing vehicle 
cut at him sportively with his whip. The vulgar little boy 
rose to his feet and hurled after his tormentor a single 
sentence of invective. I refrain from repeating it, for I 
feel that I could not do justice to it here. If I remember 
rightly, it conveyed, in a very few words, a reflection on 
the legitimacy of the driver’s birth ; it hinted a suspicion 
of his father’s integrity, and impugned the fair fame of his 
mother ; it suggested incompetency in his present position, 
personal uncleanliness, and evinced a sceptical doubt of 
his future salvation. As his youthful lips closed over the 
last syllable, the eyes of the vulgar little boy met mine. 
Something in my look emboldened him to wink. I did 
not repel the action nor the complicity it implied. From 
that moment I fell into the power of the vulgar little boy, 
and he has never left me since. 

He haunts me in the streets and byways. He accosts 
me, when in the company of friends, with repulsive freedom. 
He lingers about the gate of my dwelling to waylay me as 
I issue forth to business. Distance he overcomes by main 
strength of lungs, and he hails me from the next street. 
He met me at the theatre the other evening, and demanded 
my check with the air of a young footpad. I foolishly gave 
it to him, but re-entering some time after, and comfortably 
seating myself in the parquet, I was electrified by hearing 
my name called from the gallery with the addition of a 
playful adjective. It was the vulgar little boy. During 


217 


On a Vulgar Little Boy. 

the performance he projected spirally-twisted playbills in 
my direction, and indulged in a running commentary on 
the supernumeraries as they entered. 

To-day has evidently been a dull one with him. I observe 
he whistles the popular airs of the period with less shrillness 
and intensity. Providence, however, looks not unkindly on 
him, and delivers into his hands, as it were, two nice little 
boys who have at this moment innocently strayed into our 
street. They are pink-and-white children, and are dressed 
alike, and exhibit a certain air of neatness and refinement 
which is alone sufficient to awaken the antagonism of the 
vulgar little boy. A sigh of satisfaction breaks from his 
breast. What does he do ? Any other boy would content 
himself with simply knocking the hats off their respective 
heads, and so vent his superfluous vitality in a single act, 
besides precipitating the flight of the enemy. But there 
are aesthetic considerations not to be overlooked ; insult is 
to be added to the injury inflicted, and in the struggles of 
the victim some justification is to be sought for extreme 
measures. The two nice little boys perceive their danger 
and draw closer to each other. The vulgar little boy begins 
by irony. He affects to be overpowered by the magnifi- 
cence of their costume. He addresses me (across the street 
and through the closed window), and requests information 
if there haply be a circus in the vicinity. He makes 
affectionate inquiries after the health of their parents. He 
expresses a fear of maternal anxiety in regard to their wel- 
fare. He offers to conduct them home. One nice little 
boy feebly retorts ; but alas ! his correct pronunciation, his 
grammatical exactitude, and his moderate epithets only 
provoke a scream of derision from the vulgar little boy, who 
now rapidly changes his tactics. S^taggering under the 
veight of his vituperation, they fall easy victims to what he 


2i8 


On a. Vulgar Little Boy. 

viTould call his “dexter mawley.” A wail of lamentation 
goes up from our street. But as the subject of this article 
seems to require a more vigorous handling than I had 
purposed to give it, I find it necessary to abandon my pre- 
sent dignified position, seize my hat, open the front door, 
and try a stronger method. 


( 219 ) 


jFrom a "Batfe (KBinDoto. 

I REMEMBER that long ago, as a sanguine and trustful 
child, I became possessed of a highly-coloured lithograph 
representing a fair Circassian sitting by a window. The 
price I paid for this work of art may have been extravagant, 
even in youth’s fluctuating slate-pencil currency; but the 
secret joy I felt in its possession knew no pecuniary equiva- 
lent. It was not alone that Nature in Circassia lavished 
alike upon the cheek of beauty and the vegetable kingdom 
that most expensive of colours, — lake ; nor was it that the 
rose which bloomed beside the fair Circassian’s window had 
no visible stem, and was directly grafted upon a marble 
balcony ; but it was because it embodied an idea. That 
idea was a hinting of my Fate. I felt that somewhere a 
young and fair Circassian was sitting by a window looking 
out for me. The idea of resisting such an array of charms 
and colour never occurred to me, and to my honour be it 
recorded, that during the feverish period of adolescence I 
never thought of averting my destiny. But' as vacation and 
holiday came and went, and as my picture at first grew 
blurred, and then .faded quite away between the Eastern 
and Western continents in my atlas, so its charm seemed 
mysteriously to pass away. When I became convinced that 
few females, of Circassian or other origin, sat pensively rest- 
ing their chins on their henna- tinged nails at their parlour 
windows, I turned my attention to back windows. Although 


220 


From a Back Window, 


the fair Circassian has not yet burst upon me with open 
shutters, some peculiarities not unworthy of note have fallen 
under my observation. This knowledge has not been 
gained without sacrifice. I have made myself familiar with 
back windows and their prospects in the weak disguise of 
seeking lodgings, heedless of the suspicious glances of land- 
ladies and their evident reluctance to show them. I have 
caught cold by long exposure to draughts. I have become 
estranged from friends by unconsciously walking to their 
back windows during a visit when the weekly linen hung 
upon the line, or when Miss Fanny (ostensibly indisposed) 
actually assisted in the laundry, and Master Bobby, in scant 
attire, disported himself on the area railings. But I have 
thought of Galileo, and the invariable experience of all 
seekers and discoverers of truth has sustained me. 

Show me the back windows of a man’s dwelling, and I 
will tell you his character. The rear of a house only is 
sincere. The attitude of deception kept up at the front 
windows leaves the back area defenceless. The world 
enters at the front door, but nature comes out at the back 
passage. That glossy, well-brushed individual, who lets 
himself in with a latch-key at the front door at night, is a 
very different being from the slipshod wretch who growls of 
mornings for hot water at the door of the kitchen. The 
same with Madame, whose contour of figure grows angular, 
whose face grows pallid, whose hair comes down, and who 
looks some ten years older through the sincere medium of 
a back window. No wonder thitt intimate friends fail to 
recognise each other in this dos d dos position. You may 
imagine yourself familiar with the silver door-plate and bow- 
windows of the mansion where dwells your Saccharissa ; you 
may even fancy you recognise her graceful figure between 
the lace curtains of the upper chamber which you fondly 
imagine to be hers ; but you shall dwell for months in the 


From a Back Window. 


221 


rear of her dwelling and within whispering distance of her 
bower, and never know it. You shall see her with a hand- 
kerchief tied round her head in confidential discussion with 
the butcher, and know her not. You shall hear her voice 
in shrill expostulation with her younger brother, and it shall 
awaken no familiar response. 

I am writing at a back window. As I prefer the warmth 
of my coal-fire to the foggy freshness of the afternoon breeze 
that rattles the leafless shrubs in the garden below me, I 
have my window-sash closed ; consequently, I miss much of 
the shrilly altercation that has been going on in the kitchen 
of No. 7 just opposite. I have heard fragments of an enter- 
taining style of dialogue usually known as “ chaffing,” which 
has just taken place between Biddy in No. 9 and the 
butcher who brings the dinner. I have been pitying the 
chilled aspect of the poor canary, put out to taste the fresh 
air from the window of No. 5. I have been watching — 
and envying, I fear — the real enjoyment of two children 
raking over an old dust-heap in the alley containing the 
waste and debris of all the back yards in the neighbourhood. 
What a wealth of soda-water bottles and old iron they have 
acquired ! But I am waiting for an even more familiar 
prospect from my back window. I know that later in the 
afternoon, when the evening paper comes, a thickset, grey- 
haired man will appear in his shirt-sleeves at the back door 
of No. 9, and, seating himself on the door-step, begin to 
read. He lives in a pretentious house, and I hear he is a 
rich man. But there is such humility in his attitude, and 
such evidence of gratitude at being allowed to sit outside of 
his own house and read his paper in his shirt-sleeves, that I 
can picture his domestic history pretty clearly. Perhaps he 
is following some old habit of humbler days. Perhaps he 
has entered into an agreement with his wife not to indulge 
bis disgraceful habit indoors. He does not look like a 


222 


From a Back Window. 


man who could be coaxed into a dressing-gown. In front 
of his own palatial residence, I know him to be a quiet and 
respectable middle-aged business-man, but it is from my 
back window that my heart warms toward him in his shirt- 
sleeved simplicity. So I sit and watch him in the twilight 
as he reads gravely, and wonder sometimes, when he looks 
up, squares his chest, and folds his paper thoughtfully over 
his knee, whether he doesn’t fancy he hears the letting down 
of bars or the tinkling of bells as the cows come home and 
stand lowing for him at the gate. 


( 223 ) 


@iitietoalfeings(. 

The time occupied in walking to and from my business 1 
have always found to yield me a certain mental enjoyment 
which no other part of the twenty-four hours could give. 
Perhaps the physical exercise may have acted as a gentle 
stimulant of the brain, but more probably the comfortable 
consciousness that I could not reasonably be expected to 
be doing anything else — to be studying or improving my 
mind, for instance — always gave a joyous liberty to my 
fancy. I once thought it necessary to employ this interval 
in doing sums in arithmetic, — in which useful study I was 
and am still lamentably deficient, — but after one or two 
attempts at peripatetic computation, I gave it up. I am 
satisfied that much enjoyment is lost to the world by this 
nervous anxiety to improve our leisure moments, which, 
like the “ shining hours ” of Dr. Watts, unfortunately offer 
the greatest facilities for idle pleasure. I feel a profound pit} 
for those misguided beings who are still impelled to carry 
text-books with them in cars, omnibuses, and ferryboats, 
and who generally manage to defraud themselves of those 
intervals of rest they most require. Nature must have her 
fallow moments, when she covers her exhausted fields with 
flowers instead of grain. Deny her this, and the next crop 
suffers for it I offer this axiom as some apology for 
obtruding upon the reader a few of the speculations whicb 
have engaged my mind during these daily perambulations. 


2 24 Sidewal kings. 

Few Californians know how to lounge gracefully. Busi 
ness habits, and a deference to the custom, even with those 
who have no business, give an air of restless anxiety to 
every pedestrian. The exceptions to this rule are apt to 
go to the other extreme, and wear a defiant, obtrusive kind 
of indolence which suggests quite as much inward disquiet 
and unrest. The shiftless lassitude of a gambler can never 
be mistaken for the lounge of a gentleman. Even the 
brokers who loiter upon Montgomery Street at high noon 
are not loungers. Look at them closely and you will see a 
feverishness and anxiety under the mask of listlessness. 
They do not lounge — they lie in wait No surer sign, I 
imagine, of our peculiar civilisation can be found than this 
lack of repose in its constituent elements. You cannot 
keep Californians quiet even in their amusements. They 
dodge in and out of the theatre, opera, and lecture-room ; 
they prefer the street cars to walking because they think 
they get along faster. The difference of locomotion 
between Broadway, New York, and Montgomery Street, 
San Francisco, is a comparative view of Eastern and 
Western civilisation. 

There is a habit peculiar to many walkers, which ‘‘ Punch,” 
some years ago, touched upon satirically, but which seems 
to have survived the jester’s ridicule. It is that custom of 
stopping friends in the street, to whom we have nothing 
whatever to communicate, but whom we embarrass for no 
other purpose than simply to show our friendship. Jones 
meets his friend Smith, whom he has met in nearly the 
same locality but a few hours before. During that interval, 
it is highly probable that no event of any importance to 
Smith, nor indeed to Jones, which by a friendly construc- 
tion Jones could imagine Smith to be interested in, has 
occurred, or is likely to occur. Yet both gentlemen stop 
and shake hands earnestly. “ Well, how goes it ? ” remark? 


225 


Sidewalkings. 

Smith, with a vague hope that something may have hap' 
pened. “So so,” replies the eloquent Jones, feeling intui- 
tively the deep vacuity of his friend answering to his own. 
A pause ensues, in which both gentlemen regard each other 
with an imbecile smile and a fervent pressure of the hand. 
Smith draws a long breath and looks up the street; Jones 
sighs heavily and gazes down the street. Another pause, 
in which both gentlemen disengage their respective hands 
and glance anxiously around for some conventional avenue 
of escape. Finally, Smith (with a sudden assumption of 
having forgotten an important engagement) ejaculates, 
“ Well, I must be off,” — a remark instantly echoed by the 
voluble Jones, and these gentlemen separate, only to re- 
peat their miserable formula the next day. In the above 
example I have compassionately shortened the usual leave- 
raking, which, in skilful hands, may be protracted to a 
length which I shudder to recall I have sometimes, when 
an active participant in these atrocious transactions, lin- 
gered in the hope of saying something natural to my friend 
(feeling that he, too, was groping in the mazy labyrinths of 
his mind for a like expression), until I have felt that we 
ought to have been separated by a policeman. It is aston- 
ishing how far the most wretched joke will go in these 
emergencies, and how it will, as it were, convulsively detach 
the two cohering particles. I have laughed (albeit hysteri- 
cally) at some witticism under cover of which I escaped, 
that five minutes afterward I could not perceive possessed 
a grain of humour. I would advise any person who may fall 
into this pitiable strait, that, next to getting in the way of a 
passing dray and being forcibly disconnected, a joke is the 
most efficacious. A foreign phrase often may be tried with 
success. I have sometimes known Au revoir, pronounced 
“0-reveer,” to have the effect ^as it ought) of severing 
friends. 

VOL. IL 


P 


226 Sidewalkings. 

But this is a harmless habit compared to a certain repre- 
hensible practice in which sundry feeble-minded young 
men indulge. I have been stopped in the street and 
enthusiastically accosted by some fashionable young man, 
who has engaged me in animated conversation, until (quite 
accidentally) a certain young belle would pass, whom my 
friend of course saluted. As, by a strange coincidence, 
this occurred several times in the course of the week, and 
as my young friend’s conversational powers invariably 
flagged after the lady had passed, I am forced to believe 
that the deceitful young wretch actually used me as a 
conventional background to display the graces of his figure 
to the passing fair. When I detected the trick, of course 
I made a point of keeping my friend, by strategic move- 
ments, with his back toward the young lady, while I bowed 
to her myself. Since then, I understand that it is a regular 
custom of these callow youths to encounter each other, 
with simulated cordiality, some paces in front of the young 
lady they wish to recognise, so that she cannot possibly 
cut them. The corner of California and Montgomery 
Streets is their favourite haunt. They may be easily de- 
tected by their furtive expression of eye, which betrays 
them even in the height of their apparent enthusiasm. 

Speaking of eyes, you can generally settle the average 
gentility and good-breeding of the people you meet in the 
street by the manner in which they return or evade youi 
glance. “A gentleman,” as the Autocrat has wisely said, 
is always “ calm-eyed.” There is just enough abstraction 
in his look to denote his individual power and the capacity 
for self-contemplation, while he is, nevertheless, quietly 
and unobtrusively observant He does not seek, neither 
does he evade, your observation. Snobs and prigs do the 
first ; bashful and mean pleople do the second. There are 
Bome men who, on meeting your eye, immediately assume 


Sidewalkings. 227 

Bn expression quite different from the one which they 
previously wore, which, whether an improvement or not, 
suggests a disagreeable self-consciousness. Perhaps they 
fancy they are betraying something. There are others who 
return your look with unnecessary defiance, which suggests 
a like concealment. The symptoms of the eye are generally 
borne out in the figure. A man is very apt to betray his 
character by the manner in which he appropriates his part 
of the sidewalk. The man who resolutely keeps the middle 
of the pavement and deliberately brushes against you, you 
may be certain would take the last piece of pie at the hotel 
table, and empty the cream-jug on its way to your cup. 
The man who sidles by you, keeping close to the houses 
and selecting the easiest planks, manages to slip through 
life in some such way, and to evade its sternest duties. 
The awkward man, who gets in your way, and throws you 
back upon the man behind you, and so manages to derange 
the harmonious procession of an entire block, is very apt 
to do the sarne thing in political and social economy. The 
inquisitive man, who deliberately shortens his pace so 
that he may participate in the confidence you impart to 
your companion, has an eye not unfamiliar to keyholes, 
and probably opens his wife’s letters. The loud man, who 
talks with the intention of being overheard, is the same 
egotist elsewhere. If there was any justice in lago’s sneer, 
that there were some ‘‘ so weak of soul that in their sleep 
they mutter their affairs,” what shall be said of the walking 
reverie babblers? I have met men who were evidently 
rolling over, “ like a sweet morsel under the tongue,” some 
speech they were about to make, and others who were 
framing curses. I remember once that, while walking 
behind an apparently respectable old gentleman, he sud 
denly uttered the exclamation, “ Well, I’m d — d 1 ” and 
then quietly resumed his usual manner. Whether he had 


2 2 8 Sidewalkings, 

at that moment become impressed with a truly orthodox 
disbelief in his ultimate salvation, or whether he was simply 
indignant, I never could tell. 

I have been hesitating for some time to speak— or if 
indeed to speak at all — of that lovely and critic-defying 
sex, whose bright eyes and voluble prattle have not been 
without effect in tempering the austerities of my peripatetic 
musing. I have been humbly thankful that I have been 
permitted to view their bright dresses and those charming 
bonnets which seem to have brought the birds and flowers 
of spring within the dreary limits of the town, and — I trust 
I shall not be deemed unkind in saying it — my pleasure 
was not lessened by the reflection that the display, to me 
at least, was inexpensive. I have walked in — and I fear 
occasionally on — the train of the loveliest of her sex who 
has preceded me. If I have sometimes wondered why two 
young ladies always began to talk vivaciously on the 
approach of any good-looking fellow ; if I have wondered 
whether the mirror-like qualities of all large show-windows 
at all influenced their curiosity regarding silks and calicoes; 
if I have ever entertained the same ungentlemanly thought 
concerning daguerreotype show-cases ; if I have ever misin- 
terpreted the eyeshot which has passed between two pretty 
women — more searching, exhaustive, and sincere than any 
of our feeble ogles ; — if I have ever committed these or any 
other impertinences, it was only to retire beaten and dis- 
comfited, and to confess that masculine philosophy, while 
it soars beyond Sirius and the ring of Saturn, stops short 
Rt the steel periphery which encompasses the simplest 
school-girl. 


✓ 


< 229 ) 


Cfiaritafile IReminiscenceg^ 

As the new Benevolent Association has had the effect of 
withdrawing beggars from the streets, and as professional 
mendicancy bids fair to be presently ranked with the lost 
arts, to preserve some records of this noble branch of in- 
dustry, I have endeavoured to recall certain traits and 
peculiarities of individual members of the order whom 
I have known, and whose forms I now. miss from their 
accustomed haunts. In so doing, I confess to feeling a 
certain regret at this decay of professional begging, for I 
hold the theory that mankind are bettered by the occa- 
sional spectacle of misery, whether simulated or not, on the 
same “*principle that our sympathies are enlarged by the 
fictitious woes of the drama, though we know that the actors 
are insincere. Perhaps I am indiscreet in saying that I 
have rewarded the artfully-dressed and well-acted perform- 
ance of the begging impostor through the same impulse 
that impelled me to expend a dollar in witnessing the coun- 
terfeited sorrows of poor “Triplet,” as represented by 
Charles Wheatleigh. I did not quarrel with deceit in 
either case. My coin was given in recognition of the senti- 
ment ; the moral responsibility rested with the performer. 

The principal figure that I now mourn over as lost for 
ever is one that may have been familiar to many of my 
readers. It was that of a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, 
foreign-looking woman, who supported in her arms a sickly 


230 Charitable Reminiscences, 

baby. As a pathological phenomenon the baby was 
especially interesting, having presented the Hippocratic face 
and other symptoms of immediate dissolution, without 
change, for the past three years. The woman never ver- 
bally solicited alms. Her appearance was always mute, mys- 
terious, and sudden. She made no other appeal than that 
which the dramatic tableau of herself and baby suggested, 
with an outstretched hand and deprecating eye sometimes 
superadded. She usually stood in my doorway, silent and 
patient, intimating her presence, if my attention were pre- 
occupied, by a slight cough from her baby, whom I shall 
always believe had its part to play in this little pantomime, 
and generally obeyed a secret signal from the maternal 
hand. It was useless for me to refuse alms, to plead busi- 
ness, or affect inattention. She never moved ; her position 
was always taken with an appearance of latent capabilities 
of endurance and experience in waiting w^hich never failed 
to impress me with awe and the futility of any hope of 
escape. There was also something in the reproachful 
expression of her eye which plainly said to me, as I bent 
over my paper, “ Go on with your mpck sentimentalities 
and simulated pathos, portray the imaginary sufferings of 
your bodiless creations, spread your thin web of philosophy ; 
but look you, sir, here is real misery — here is genuine 
suffering ! ” I confess that this artful suggestion usually 
brought me down. In three minutes after she had thus 
invested the citadel I usually surrendered at discretion, with- 
out a gun having been fired on either side. She received 
my offering and retired as mutely and mysteriously as she 
had appeared. Perhaps it was well for me that she did not 
know her strength. I might have been forced, had this 
terrible woman been conscious of her real power, to have 
borrowed money which I could not pay, or have forged a 
check to purchase immunity from her awful presence. 1 


Charitable Renmiiscences, 


231 


hardly know if I make myself understood, and yet I am 
unable to define my meaning more clearly when I say that 
there was something in her glance which suggested to the 
person appealed to, when in the presence of others, a 
certain idea of some individual responsibility for her suf- 
ferings, which, while it never failed to affect him with a 
mingled sense of ludicrousness and terror, always made an 
impression of unqualified gravity on the minds of the by- 
standers. As she has disappeared within the last month, I 
imagine that she has found a home at the San Francisco 
Benevolent Association, — at least, I cannot conceive of any 
charity, however guarded by wholesome checks or sharp^ 
eyed almoners, that could resist that mute apparition. I 
should like to go there and inquire about her, and also 
learn if the baby was convalescent or dead ; but I am satis^ 
fied that she would rise up, a mute and reproachful appeal, 
so personal in its artful suggestions, that it would end in the 
Association instantly transferring her to my hands. , 

My next familiar mendicant was a vender of printed 
ballads. These effusions were so stale, atrocious, and un- 
saleable in their character, that it was easy to detect that 
hypocrisy which — in imitation of more ambitious beggary 
— veiled the real eleemosynary appeal under the thin pre- 
text of offering an equivalent This beggar — an aged 
female in a rusty bonnet — I unconsciously precipitated upon 
myself in an evil moment On our first meeting, while dis- 
tractedly turning over the ballads, I came upon a certain 
production entitled, I think, “ The Fire Zouave,” and was 
struck with the truly patriotic and American manner in 
which “Zouave” was made to rhyme in different stanzas 
with “ grave, brave, save, and glaive.” As I purchased it 
at once with a gratified expression of countenance, it soon 
became evident that the act was misconstrued by my poor 
friend, who from that moment never ceased to haunt me. 


232 Charitable Reminiscences. 

Perhaps in she whole course of her precarious existence 
she had never before sold a ballad. My solitary purchase 
evidently made me, in her eyes, a customer, and in a 
measure exalted her vocation ; so thereafter she regularly 
used to look in at my door, with a chirping, confident air, 
and the question, “ Any more songs to-day ? ” as though it 
were some necessary article of daily consumption. I never 
took any more of her songs, although that circumstance 
did not shake her faith in my literary taste ; my abstinence 
from this exciting mental pabulum being probably ascribed 
to charitable motives. She was finally absorbed by the 
S.F.B.A., who have probably made a proper disposition of 
her effects. She was a little old woman, of Celtic origin, 
predisposed to melancholy, and looking as if she had read 
most of her ballads. 

My next reminiscence takes the shape of a very seedy 
individual, who had, for three or four years, been vainly 
attempting to get back to his relatives in Illinois, where 
sympathising friends and a comfortable almshouse awaited 
him. Only a few dollars, he informed me, — the uncontri- 
buted remainder of the amount necessary to purchase a 
steerage ticket, — stood in his way. These last few dollars 
seem to have been most difficult to get, and he had 
wandered about, a sort of antithetical Flying Dutchman, 
for ever putting to sea, yet never getting away from shore. 
He was a “ 49-er,” and had recently been blown up in a 
tunnel, or had fallen down a shaft, I forget which. This 
sad accident obliged him to use large quantities of whisky 
as a liniment, which, he informed me, occasioned the 
mild fragrance which his garments exhaled. Though be- 
longing to the same class, he was not to be confounded 
with the unfortunate miner who could not get back to his 
claim without pecuniary assistance, or the desolate Italian 
who hopelessly handed you a document in a foreign Ian* 


Charitable Reminiscences, 233 

guage, very much bethumbed and illegible, which, in 
your ignorance of the tongue, you couldn’t help suspiciously 
feeling might have been a price current, but which you 
could see was proffered as an excuse for alms. Indeed, 
whenever any stranger handed me, without speaking, an 
open document, which bore the marks of having been 
carried in the greasy lining of a hat, I always felt safe in 
giving him a quarter and dismissing him without further 
questioning, I always noticed that these circular letters, 
when written in the vernacular, were remarkable for their 
beautiful caligraphy and grammatical inaccuracy, and that 
they all seem to have been written by the same hand. 
Perhaps indigence exercises a peculiar and equal effect 
upon the handwriting. 

. I recall a few occasional mendicants whose faces were 
less familiar. One afternoon a most extraordinary Irish- 
man, with a black eye, a bruised hat, and other traces of 
past enjoyment, waited upon me with a pitiful story of 
destitution and want, and concluded by requesting the 
usual trifle. I replied, with some severity, that if I gave 
him a dime he would probably spend it for drink. “ Be 
Gorra ! but you’re roight — I wad that ! ” he answered 
promptly. I was so much taken aback by this unexpected 
exhibition of frankness that I instantly handed over the 
dime. It seems that truth had survived the wreck of his 
other virtues; he did get drunk, and, impelled by a like 
conscientious sense of duty, exhibited himself to me in that 
State a few hours after, to show that my bounty had not 
been misapplied. 

In spite of the peculiar characters of these reminiscences, 
I cannot help feeling a certain regret at the decay of 
professional mendicancy. Perhaps it may be owing to a 
lingering trace of that youthful superstition which saw in 
all beggars a possible prince or fairy, and invested their 


234 


Charitable Reminiscences, 


calling with a mysterious awe. Perhaps it may be from a 
belief that there is something in the old-fashioned alms- 
givings and actual contact with misery that is wholesome for 
both donor and recipient, and that any system which inter- 
poses a third party between them is only putting on a thick 
glove, which, while it preserves us from contagion, absorbs 
and deadens the kindly pressure of our hand. It is a very 
pleasant thing to purchase relief from the annoyance and 
trouble of having to weigh the claims of an afflicted 
neighbour. As I turn over these printed tickets, which 
the courtesy of the San Francisco Benevolent Association 
has — by a slight stretch of the imagination in supposing 
that any sane unfortunate might rashly seek relief from a 
newspaper office — conveyed to these editorial hands, I 
cannot help wondering whether when, in our last extremity, 
we come to draw upon the Immeasurable Bounty, it will 
be necessary to present a ticket 


( 235 ) 


“gieefng tfie ©teamer €)£” 

I HAVE sometimes thought, while watching the departure 
of an Eastern steamer, that the act of parting from friends 
— so generally one of bitterness and despondency — is made 
by an ingenious Californian custom to yield a pleasurable 
excitement. This luxury of leave-taking, in which most 
Californians indulge, is often protracted to the hauling in 
of the gang-plank. Those last words, injunctions, promises, 
and embraces, which are mournful and depressing perhaps 
in that privacy demanded on other occasions, are here, by 
reason of their very publicity, of an edifying and exhilarat- 
ing character. A parting kiss, blown from the deck of a 
steamer into a miscellaneous crowd, of course loses much 
of that sacred solemnity with which foolish superstition is 
apt to invest it A broadside of endearing epithets, even 
when properly aimed and apparently raking the whole 
wharf, is apt to be impotent and harmless. A husband 
who prefers to embrace his wife for the last time at the 
door of her state-room, and finds himself the centre of an 
admiring group of unconcerned spectators, of course feels 
himself lifted above any feeling save that of ludicrousness 
which the situation suggests. The mother, parting from 
her offspring, should become a Roman matron under the 
like influences; the lover who takes leave of his sweet- 
heart is not apt to mar the general hilarity by any emotional 
folly. In fact, this system of delaying our parting senti- 


236 “ Seeing the Steamer Off!' 

merits until the last moment — this removal of domestic 
scenery and incident to a public theatre — may be said to 
be worthy of a stoical and democratic people, and is an 
event in our lives which may be shared with the humblest 
coal-passer or itinerant vender of oranges. It is a return 
to that classic out-of-door experience and mingling of public 
and domestic economy which so ennobled the straight- 
nosed Athenian. 

So universal is this desire to be present at the depar- 
ture of any steamer that, aside from the regular crowd of 
loungers who make their appearance confessedly only to 
look on, there are others who take advantage of the slightest 
intimacy to go through the leave-taking formula. People 
whom you have quite forgotten, people to whom you have 
been lately introduced, suddenly and unexpectedly make 
their appearance and wring your hands with fervour. The 
friend long estranged forgives you nobly at the last 
moment, to take advantage of this glorious opportunity of 
“seeing you off.” Your bootmaker, tailor, and hatter — 
haply with no ulterior motives and unaccompanied by 
official friends — visit you with enthusiasm. You find great 
difficulty in detaching your relatives and acquaintances from 
the trunks on which they resolutely seat themselves up to 
the moment when the paddles are moving, and you are 
haunted continually by an ill-defined idea that they may be 
carried off and foisted on you — with the payment of their 
passage, which, under the circumstances, you could not 
refuse — for the rest of the voyage. Your friends will make 
their appearance at the most inopportune moments and 
from the most unexpected places, — dangling from hawsers, 
rlimbing up paddle-boxes, and crawling through cabin 
windows at the imminent peril of their lives. You are 
nervous and crushed by this added weight of responsibility. 
Should you be a stranger, you will find any number ot 


" Seeing the Steamer Off!' 237 

people on board, who will cheerfully and at a venture take 
leave of you on the slightest advances made on your part 
A friend of mine assures me that he once parted, with great 
enthusiasm and cordiality, from a party of gentlemen, to 
him personally unknown, who had apparently mistaken his 
state-room. This party, — evidently connected with some 
fire company, — on comparing notes on the wharf, being 
somewhat dissatisfied with the result of their performances, 
afterward rendered my friend’s position on the hurricane 
deck one of extreme peril and inconvenience, by reason of 
skilfully projected oranges and apples, accompanied with 
some invective. Yet there is certainly something to interest 
us in the examination of that cheerless damp closet, whose 
painted wooden walls no furniture or company can make 
habitable, wherein our friend is to spend so many vapid 
days and restless nights. The sight of these apartments, 
yclept state-roomsy — Heaven knows why, except it be from 
theirwant of cosiness, — is full of keen reminiscences to most 
Californians who have not outgrown the memories of that 
dreary interval when, in obedience to Nature’s wise compen- 
sations, home-sickness was blotted out by sea-sickness, and 
both at last resolved into a chaotic and distempered dream, 
whose details we now recognise. The steamer chair that 
we used to drag out upon the narrow strip of deck and 
doze in over the pages of a well-thumbed novel ; the deck 
itself, of afternoons redolent with the skins of oranges and 
bananas, of mornings damp with salt-water and mopping; 
the netted bulwark, smelling of tar in the tropics and 
fretted on the weather side with little saline crystals ; the 
villanously compounded odours of victuals from the pantry 
and oil from the machinery ; the young lady that we used 
to flirt with, and with whom we shared our last novel, 
adorned with marginal annotations ; our own chum ; our 
own bore ; the man who was never sea sick ; the two events 


“ Seeing the Steamer Off'* 


23S 

of the dayj breakfast and dinner, and the dreary interval 
between ; the tremendous importance given to trifling 
events and trifling people; the young lady who kept a 
journal ; the newspaper, published on board, filled with 
mild pleasantries and impertinences, elsewhere unendur- 
able; the young lady who sang; the wealthy passenger; 

the popular passenger ; the 

[Let us sit down for a moment until this qualmishness, 
which these associations and some infectious quality of the 
atmosphere seem to produce, has passed away. What 
becomes of our steamer friends? Why are we now so 
apathetic about them ? Why is it that we drift away from 
them so unconcernedly, forgetting even their names and 
faces? Why, when we do remember them, do we look at 
them so suspiciously, with an undefined idea that, in the 
unrestrained freedom of the voyage, they became possessed 
of some confidence and knowledge of our weaknesses that 
we never should have imparted ? Did we make any such 
confessions ? Perish the thought ! The popular man, how- 
ever, is not now so popular. We have heard finer voices 
than that of the young lady who sang so sweetly. Our 
chum’s fascinating qualities somehow have deteriorated on 
land ; so have those of the fair young novel-reader, now 
the wife of an honest miner in Virginia City.] 

— ^The passenger who made so many trips, and exhibited 
a reckless familiarity with the officers; the officers them- 
selves, now so modest and undemonstrative, a few hours 
later so all-powerful and important, — these are among the 
reminiscences of most Californians, and these are to be 
remembered among the experiences of our friend. Yet he 
feels, as we all do, that his past experience will be of profit 
to him, and has already the confident air of an old voyager. 

As you stand on the wharf again, and listen to the cries 
of itinerant fruit venders, you wonder why it is that grief at 


239 


Seeing the Steamer Off!* 

parting and the unpleasant novelties of travel are supposed 
to be assuaged by oranges and apples, even at ruinously low 
prices. Perhaps it may be, figuratively, the last offering of 
the fruitful earth, as the passenger commits himself to the 
bosom of the sterile and unproductive ocean. Even while 
the wheels are moving and the lines are cast off, some 
hardy apple merchant, mounted on the top of a pile, con- 
cludes a trade with a steerage passenger, — twenty feet 
interposing between buyer and seller — and achieves, under 
these difficulties, the delivery of his wares. Handkerchiefs 
wave, hurried orders mingle with parting blessings, and the 
steamer is “off.” ‘ As you turn your face cityward, and 
glance hurriedly around at the retreating crowd, you will 
see a reflection of your own wistful face in theirs, and read 
the solution of one of the problems which perplex the Cali- 
fornia enthusiast. Before you lies San Francisco, with her 
hard angular outlines, her brisk, invigorating breezes, her 
bright, but unsympathetic sunshine, her restless and ener- 
getic population ; behind you fades the recollection of 
changeful but honest skies, of extremes of heat and cold, 
modified and made enjoyable through social and physical 
laws, of pastoral landscapes, of accessible Nature in her 
kindliest forms, of inherited virtues, of long-tested customs 
and habits, of old friends and old faces, — in a word — of 
Home 1 


( 240 ) 


jl3etgf)6ouc6ootisi 3f Jpatje ^otoeD jFrom, 


I. 

A BAY-WINDOW once settled the choice of my house and 
compensated for many of its inconveniences. When the 
chimney smoked, or the doors alternately shrunk and 
swelled, resisting any forcible attempt to open them, or 
opening of themselves with ghostly deliberation, or when 
suspicious blotches appeared on the ceiling in rainy weather, 
there was always the bay-window to turn to for comfort 
And the view was a fine one. Alcatraz, Lime Point, Fort 
Point, and Saucelito were plainly visible over a restless 
expanse of water that changed continually, glittering in the 
sunlight, darkening in rocky shadow, or sweeping in mimic 
waves on a miniature beach below. 

Although at first the bay-window was supposed to be 
sacred to myself and my writing materials, in obedience to 
B(^me organic law it by and by became a general lounging- 
place. A rocking-chair and crotchet basket one day found 
their way there. Then the baby invaded its recesses, forti- 
fying himself behind intrenchments of coloured worsteds 
and spools of cotton, from which he was only dislodged by 
concerted assault, and carried lamenting into captivity. A 
subtle glamour crept over all who came within its influence. 
To apply one’s self to serious work there was an absurdity. 
An incoming ship, a gleam on the water, a cloud lingering 
about Tamalpais, were enough to distract the attentioa 


Neighbourhoods I have Moved From. 24 1 

Reading or writing, the bay-window was always showing 
something to be looked at Unfortunately these views 
were not always pleasant, but the window gave equal pro- 
minence and importance to all, without respect to quality. 

The landscape in the vicinity was unimproved but not 
rural. The adjacent lots had apparently just given up bear- 
ing scrub-oaks, but had not seriously taken to bricks and 
mortar. In one direction the vista was closed by the Home 
of the Inebriates, not in itself a cheerful-looking building, 
and, as the apparent terminus of a ramble in a certain 
direction, having all the effect of a moral lesson. To a 
certain extent, however, this building was an impositioa 
The enthusiastic members of my family, who confidently 
expected to see its inmates hilariously disporting themselves 
at its windows in the different stages of inebriation portrayed 
by the late W. E. Burton, were much disappointed. The 
Home was reticent of its secrets. The County Hospital, 
also in range of the bay-window, showed much more anima- 
tion. At certain hours of the day convalescents passed in 
review before the window on their way to an airing. This 
spectacle was the still more depressing from a singular lack 
of sociability that appeared to prevail among them. Each 
man was encompassed by the impenetrable atmosphere of 
his own peculiar suffering. They did not talk or walk 
together. From the window I have seen half a dozen 
sunning themselves against a wall within a few feet of each 
other, to all appearance utterly oblivious of the fact. Had 
they but quarrelled or fought, — anything would have been 
better than this horrible apathy. 

The lower end of the street on which the bay-window 
was situate opened invitingly from a popular thoroughfare, 
and after beckoning the unwary stranger into its recesses, 
ended unexpectedly at a frightful precipice. On Sundays, 
when the travel North- Beachwards was considerable, the 

VOL. IL Q 


24-2 N eighbourhoods I have Moved From, 

bay-window delighted in the spectacle afforded by unhappy 
pedestrians who were seduced into taking this street as a 
short-cut somewhere else. It was amusing to notice how 
these people invariably, on coming to the precipice, glanced 
upward to the bay-window and endeavoured to assume a 
careless air before they retraced their steps, whistling osten- 
tatiously, as if they had previously known all about it. One 
high-spirited young man in particular, being incited thereto 
by a pair of mischievous bright eyes in an opposite window, 
actually descended this fearful precipice rather than return, 
to the great peril of life and limb, and manifest injury to his 
Sunday clothes. 

Dogs, goats, and horses constituted the fauna of our 
neighbourhood. Possessing the lawless freedom of their 
normal condition, they still evinced a tender attachment to 
man and his habitations. Spirited steeds got up extempore 
races on the sidewalks, turning the street into a miniature 
Corso; dogs wrangled in the areas; while from the hill be- 
side the house a goat browsed peacefully upon my wife’s 
geraniums in the flower-pots in the second-storey window. 
“We had a fine hail-storm last night,” remarked a newly 
arrived neighbour, who had just moved into the adjoining 
house. It would have been a pity to set him right, as he 
was quite enthusiastic about the view and the general sani- 
tary qualifications of the locality. So I didn’t tell him any- 
thing about the goats who were in the habit of using his 
house as a stepping-stone to the adjoining hill. 

But the locality was remarkably healthy. People who 
fell down the embankments found their wounds heal rapidly 
in the steady sea-breeze. Ventilation was complete and 
thorough. The opening of the bay-window produced a cur- 
rent of wholesome air which effectually removed all noxious 
exhalations, together with the curtains, the hinges of the 
back door, and the window-shutters. Owing to this j)ecu 


l^eighbour hoods I have Moved From. 243 

liarity, some of my writings acquired an extensive circulation 
and publicity in the neighbourhood, which years in another 
locality might not have produced. Several articles of wear- 
ing apparel, which were mysteriously transposed from our 
clothes-line to that of an humble though honest neighbour 
was undoubtedly the result of these sanitary winds. Yet in 
spite of these advantages I found it convenient in a few 
months to move. And the result whereof I shall communi- 
cate in other papers. 


II. 

“ A house with a fine garden and extensive shrubbery, in a 
genteel neighbourhood,” were, if I remember rightly, the 
general terms of an advertisement which once decided my 
choice of a dwelling. I should add that this occurred at an 
early stage of my household experience, when I placed a 
trustful reliance in advertisements. I have since learned 
that the most truthful people are apt to indulge a slight vein 
of exaggeration in describing their own possessions, as 
though the mere circumstance of going into print were an 
excuse for a certain kind of mendacity. But I did not 
fully awaken to this fact until a much later period, when, 
in answering an advertisement which described a highly 
advantageous tenement, I was referred to the house I then 
occupied, and from which a thousand inconveniences v^re 
impelling me to move. 

The “ fine garden ” alluded to was not large, but con ■ 
lained several peculiarly shaped flower-beds. I was at first 
struck with the singular resemblance which they bore to the 
mutton-chops that are usually brought on the table at hotels 
and restaurants, — a resemblance the more striking from the 
sprigs of parsley which they produced freely. One plat in 


*44 Neighbourhoods I have Moved From, 

particular reminded me, not unpleasantly, of a peculiaf 
cake known to my boyhood as “ a bolivar.” The owner of 
the property, however, who seemed to be a man of original 
aesthetic ideas, had banked up one of these beds with 
bright-coloured sea-shells, so that in rainy weather it sug- 
gested an aquarium, and offered the elements of botanical 
and conchological study in pleasing juxtaposition. I have 
since thought that the fish-geraniums, which it also bore to a 
surprising extent, were introduced originally from some such 
idea of consistency. But it was very pleasant after dinner 
to ramble up and down the gravelly paths (whose occa- 
sional boulders reminded me of the dry bed of a somewhat 
circuitous mining stream), smoking a cigar, or inhaling the 
rich aroma of fennel, or occasionally stopping to pluck one of 
the hollyhocks with which the garden abounded. The pro- 
lific qualities of this plant alarmed us greatly, for although, 
in the first transport of enthusiasm, my wife planted several 
different kinds of flower-seeds, nothing ever came up but 
hollyhocks ; and although, impelled by the same laudable 
impulse, I procured a copy of “Downing’s Landscape 
Gardening,” and a few gardening tools, and worked for 
several hours in the garden, my efforts were equally 
futile. 

The “ extensive shrubbery ” consisted of several dwarfed 
trees. One was a very weak young weeping willow, so very 
limp and maudlin, and so evidently bent on establishing 
its* reputation, that it had to be tied up against the 
house for support. The dampness of that portion of the 
house was usually attributed to the presence of this lachry- 
mose shrub. Add to these a couple of highly objection- 
able trees, known, I think, by the name of Malva, which 
made an inordinate show of cheap blossoms that they were 
continually shedding, and one or two dwarf oaks with 
icaly leaves and a generally spiteful exterior, and you have 


Neighbourhoods I have Moved From. 245 

Irhat was not inaptly termed by our Milesian handmaid 
“the scrubbery.’^ 

The gentility of our neighbourhood suffered a blight from 
the unwholesome vicinity of McGinnis Court. This court was 
a kind of cul de sac, that, on being penetrated, discovered a 
primitive people living in a state of barbarous freedom, and 
apparently spending the greater portion of their lives on their 
own doorsteps. Many of those details of the toilet which 
a popular prejudice restricts to the dressing-room in other 
localities were here performed in the open court without 
fear and without reproach. Early in the week the court was 
hid in a choking, soapy mist, which arose from innumerable 
wash-tubs. This was followed in a day or two later by an 
extraordinary exhibition of wearing apparel of divers colours, 
fluttering on lines like a display of bunting on shipboard, 
and whose flapping in the breeze was like irregular dis- 
charges of musketry. It was evident also that the court 
exercised a demoralising influence over the whole neighbour- 
hood. A sanguine property owner once put up a handsome 
dwelling on the corner of our street and lived therein ; but 
although he appeared frequently on his balcony, clad in a 
bright crimson dressing-gown, which made him look like a 
tropical bird of some rare and gorgeous species, he failed 
'o woo any kindred dressing-gown to the vicinity, and only 
provoked opprobrious epithets from the gamins of the court. 
He moved away shortly after, and on going by the house 
one day, I noticed a bill of “Rooms to let, with board,” 
posted conspicuously on the Corinthian columns of the 
porch. McGinnis Court had triumphed. An interchange 
of civilities at once took place between the court and the 
servants’ area of the palatial mansion, and some of the 
young men boarders exchanged playful slang with the adoles- 
cent members of the court. From that moment we felt 
that our claims to gentility were forever abandoned. 


246 Neighbourhoods I have Moved From, 

Yet we enjoyed intervals of unalloyed contentment 
When the twilight toned down the hard outlines of the 
oaks and made shadowy clumps and formless masses of 
other bushes, it was quite romantic to sit by the window 
and inhale the faint, sad odour of the fennel in the walks 
below. Perhaps this economical pleasure was much en* 
hanced by a picture in my memory, whose faded colours 
the odour of this humble plant never failed to restore. So I 
often sat there of evenings and closed my eyes until the 
forms and benches of a country schoolroom came back to 
me, redolent with the incense of fennel covertly stowed 
away in my desk, and gazed again in silent rapture on the 
round red cheeks and long black braids of that peerless 
creature whose glance had often caused my cheeks to glow 
over the preternatural collar which at that period of my 
boyhood it was my pride and privilege to wear. As I fear I 
may be often thought hypercritical and censorious in these 
articles, I am willing to record this as one of the advantages 
of our new house, not mentioned in the advertisement nor 
chargeable in the rent May the present tenant, who is a 
stockbroker, and who impresses me with the idea of having 
always been called “ Mr.” from his cradle up, enjoy this 
advantage, and try sometimes to remember he was a boy 1 

III. 

Soon after I moved into Happy Valley I was struck with 
the remarkable infelicity of its title. Generous as Cali- 
fornians are in the use of adjectives, this passed into the 
domain of irony. But I was inclined to think it sincere, — 
the production of a weak but gushing mind, just as the 
feminine nomenclature of streets in the vicinity was evidently 
bestowed by one in habitual communion with “ Friendship^! 
Gifts” and “Affection’s Offerings.” 


Neighbourhoods I have Moved From. 247 

Our house on Laura Matilda Street looked somewhat like 
a toy Swiss cottage, — a style of architecture so prevalent, 
that in walking down the block it was quite difficult to resist 
an impression of fresh glue and pine shavings. The few 
shade-trees might have belonged originally to those oval 
Christmas boxes which contain toy villages ; and even the 
people who sat by the windows had a stiffness that made 
them appear surprisingly unreal and artificial A little dog 
belonging to a neighbour was known to the members of my 
household by the name of “ Glass,” from the general sug- 
gestion he gave of having been spun of that article. Per- 
haps I have somewhat exaggerated these illustrations of the 
dapper nicety of our neighbourhood, — a neatness and con- 
ciseness which I think have a general tendency to belittle, 
dwarf, and contract their objects. For we gradually fell 
into small ways and narrow ideas, and to some extent 
squared the round world outside to the correct angles of 
Laura Matilda Street. 

One reason for this insincere quality may have been the 
fact that the very foundations of our neighbourhood were 
artificial. Laura Matilda Street was ‘‘ made ground.” The 
land, not yet quite reclaimed, was continually struggling 
with its old enemy. We had not been long in our new 
home before we found an older tenant, not yet wholly 
divested of his rights, who sometimes showed himself in 
clammy perspiration on the basement walls, whose damp 
breath chilled our dining-room, and in the night struck a 
mortal chilliness through the house. There were no patent 
fastenings that could keep him out, no writ of unlawful 
detainer that could eject him. In the winter his presence 
was quite palpable; he sapped the roots of the trees, he 
gurgled under the kitchen floor, he wrought an unwhole- 
some greenness on the side of the veranda. In summer he 
became invisible, but still exercised a familiar influence over 


248 Neighbourhoods I have Moved From, 

Ihe locality. He planted little stitches in the small of the 
back, sought out old aches and weak joints, and sportively 
punched the tenants of the Swiss cottage under the ribs. 
He inveigled little children to play with him, but his plays 
generally ended in scarlet-fever, diphtheria, whooping-cough, 
and measles. He sometimes followed strong men about 
until they sickened suddenly and took to their beds. But he 
kept the green plants in good order, and was very fond of 
verdure, bestowing it even upon lath and plaster and soulless 
stone. He was generally invisible, as I have said ; but some 
time after I had moved, I saw him one morning from the 
hill stretching his grey wings over the valley, like, some fabu- 
lous vampire, who had spent the night sucking the whole- 
some juices of the sleepers below, and was sluggish from 
the effects of his repast. It was then that I recognised him 
as Malaria, and knew his abode to be the dread Valley of 
the Shadow of Miasma, — miscalled the Happy Valley ! 

On week-days there was a pleasant melody of boiler- 
making from the foundries, and the gasworks in the vicinity 
sometimes lent a mild perfume to the breeze. Our street 
was usually quiet, however, — a footfall being sufficient to 
draw the inhabitants to their front windows, and to oblige 
an incautious trespasser to run the gauntlet of batteries of 
blue and black eyes on either side of the way. A carriage 
passing through it communicated a singular thrill to the 
floors, and caused the china on the dining-table to rattle. 
Although we were comparatively free from the prevailing 
winds, wandering gusts sometimes got bewildered and 
strayed unconsciously into our street, and finding an unen- 
cumbered field, incontinently set up a shriek of joy, and 
went gleefully to work on the clothes-lines and chimney, 
pots, and had a good time generally until they were quite 
exhausted. I have a very vivid picture in my memory of 
ftn organ-grinder who was at one time blown into the end 


Neighbourhoods I have Moved From. 249 

of our street, and actually blown through it in spite of 
several ineffectual efforts to come to a stand before the dif- 
ferent dwellings, but who was finally whirled out of the 
other extremity, still playing and vainly endeavouring to 
pursue his unhallowed calling. But these were noteworthy 
exceptions to the calm and even tenor of our life. 

There was contiguity but not much sociability in our 
neighbourhood. From my bedroom window I could plainly 
distinguish the peculiar kind of victuals spread on my neigh- 
bour’s dining-table ; while, on the other hand, he obtained 
an equally uninterrupted view of the mysteries of my toilet. 
Still that “low vice, curiosity,” was regulated by certain 
laws, and a kind of rude chivalry invested our observation. 
A pretty girl, whose bedroom window was the cynosure of 
neighbouring eyes, was once brought under the focus of an 
opera-glass in the hands of one of our ingenious youth ; 
but this act met such prompt and universal condemnation, 
as an unmanly advantage, from the lips of married men and 
bachelors who didn’t own opera-glasses, that it was never 
repeated. 

With this brief sketch I conclude my record of the neigh- 
bourhoods I have moved from. I have moved from many 
others since then, but they have generally presented features 
not dissimilar to the three I have endeavoured to describe 
in these pages. I offer them as types containing the salient 
peculiarities of all Let no inconsiderate reader rashly 
move on account of them. My experience has not been 
cheaply bought. From the nettle Change I have tried to 
pluck the flower Security. Draymen have grown rich at 
my expense. House-agents have known me and were glad, 
and landlords have risen up to meet me from afar. The 
force of habit impels me still to consult all the bills I see in 
the streets, nor can the war telegrams divert my first atten- 
tion from the advertising columns of the daily papers. I 


250 Neighbourhoods I have Moved From. 

repeat, let no man think I have disclosed the weaknesses of 
the neighbourhood, nor rashly open that closet which con- 
tains the secret skeleton of his dwelling. My carpets have 
been altered to fit all sized odd-shaped apartments from 
parallelopiped to hexagons. Much of my furniture has 
been distributed among my former dwellings. These limbs 
have stretched upon uncarpeted floors or have been let 
down suddenly from imperfectly established bedsteads. I 
have dined in the parlour and slept in the back kitchen. 
Yet the result of these sacrifices and trials may be briefly 
summed up in the statement that I am now on the eve of 
removal from my present neighbourhood. 


( 251 ) 


^2 ©ubutrban Keisttience. 

I LIVE in the suburbs. My residence, to quote the pleas- 
ing fiction of the advertisement, “ is within fifteen minutes* 
walk of the City Hall.” Why the City Hall should be 
considered as an eligible terminus of anybody’s walk under 
any circumstances, I have not been able to determine. 
Never having walked from my residence to that place, I 
am unable to verify the assertion, though I may state as a 
purely abstract and separate proposition, that it takes me 
the better part of an hour to reach Montgomery Street. 

My selection of locality was a compromise between my 
wife’s desire to go into the country and my own predilec- 
tions for civic habitation. Like most compromises, it ended 
in retaining the objectionable features of both propositions ; 
I procured the inconveniences of the country without losing 
the discomforts of the city. I increased my distance from 
the butcher and greengrocer without approximating to 
herds and kitchen-gardens. But I anticipate. 

Fresh air was to be the principal thing sought for. That 
there might be too much of this did not enter into my 
calculations. The first day I entered my residence, it 
blew ; the second day was windy ; the third, fresh, with a 
strong breeze stirring ; on the fourth, it blew ; on the fifth, 
there was a gale, which has continued to the present 
writing. 

That the air is fresh the above statement sufficiently 


/ 


252 My Suburban Residence, 

establishes. That it is bracing I argue from the fact that 
I find it impossible to open the shutters on the windward 
side of the house. That it is healthy I am also convinced, 
believing that there is no other force -in Nature that could 
so buffet and ill-use a person without serious injury to him. 
Let me offer an instance. The path to my door crosses a 
slight eminence. The unconscious visitor, a little exhausted 
by the ascent and the general effects of the gentle gales 
which he has faced in approaching my hospitable mansion, 
relaxes his efforts, smooths his brow, and approaches with 
a fascinating smile. Rash and too confident man ! The 
wind delivers a succession of rapid blows, and he is thrown 
back. He staggers up again, in the language of the P. R, 
“smiling and confident.” The wind now makes for a 
vulnerable point, and gets his hat in chancery. All cere- 
mony is now thrown away ; the luckless wretch seizes his 
hat with both hands and charges madly at the front door. 
Inch by inch the wind contests the ground ; another 
struggle and he stands upon the veranda. On such occa- 
sions I make it a point to open the door myself, with a 
calmness and serenity that shall offer a marked contrast 
to his feverish and excited air, and shall throw suspicion of 
inebriety upon him. If he be inclined to timidity and 
bashfulness, during the rest of the evening he is all too 
conscious of the disarrangement of his hair and cravat. 
If he is less sensitive, the result is often more distressing. 
A valued elderly friend once called upon me after under- 
going a twofold struggle with the wind and a large New- 
foundland dog (which I keep for reasons hereinafter stated), 
and not only his hat, but his wig had suffered. He spent 
the evening with me, totally unconscious of the fact that 
his hair presented the singular spectacle of having been 
parted diagonally from the right temple to the left ear. 
When ladies called, my wife preferred to receive them. 


My Suburban Residence, 253 

They were generally hysterical, and often in tears. I 
remember, one Sunday, to have been startled by what 
appeared to be the balloon from Hayes Valley drifting 
rapidly past my conservatory, closely followed by the New- 
foundland dog. I rushed to the front door, but was 
anticipated by my wife. A strange lady appeared at lunch, 
but the phenomenon remained otherwise unaccounted for. 
Egress from my residence is much more easy. My guests 
seldom “stand upon the order of their going, but go at 
once,” the Newfoundland dog playfully harassing their 
rear. I was standing one day, with my hand on the open 
hall door, in serious conversation with the minister of the 
parish, when the back door was cautiously opened. The 
watchful breeze seized the opportunity, and charged through 
the defenceless passage. The front door closed violently 
in the middle of a sentence, precipitating the reverend 
gentleman into the garden. The Newfoundland dog, with 
that sagacity for which his race is so distinguished, at once 
concluded that a personal collision had taken place between 
myself and visitor, and flew to my defence. The reverend 
gentleman never called again. 

The Newfoundland dog above alluded to was part of 
a system of protection which my suburban home once 
required. Robberies were frequent in the neighbourhood, 
and my only fowl fell a victim to the spoiler’s art. One 
night I awoke and found a man in my room. With 
singular delicacy and respect for the feelings of others, he 
had been careful not to awaken any of the sleepers, and 
retired upon my rising without waiting for any suggestion. 
Touched by his delicacy, I forbore giving the alarm until 
after he had made good his retreat I then wanted to go 
after a policeman, but my wife remonstrated, as this would 
leave the house exposed. Remembering the gentlemanly 
conduct of the burglar, I suggested the plan of following 


254 Suburban Residefice, 

him and requesting him to give the alarm as he went in 
town. But this proposition was received with equal dis- 
favour. The next day I procured a dog and a revolver. 
The former went off, but the latter wouldn’t. I then got 
a new dog and chained him, and a duelling pistol with a 
hair-trigger. The result was so far satisfactory that neither 
could be approached wdth safety, and for some time 1 left 
them out, indifferently, during the night But the chain 
one day gave way, and the dog, evidently having no other 
attachment to the house, took the opportunity to leave. 
His place was soon filled by the Newfoundland, whose 
fidelity and sagacity I have just recorded. 

Space is one of the desirable features of my surburban 
esidence. I do not know the number of acres the grounds 
contain except from the inordinate quantity of hose required 
for irrigating. I perform daily, like some gentle shepherd, 
upon a quarter-inch pipe without any visible result, and 
nave had serious thoughts of contracting with some dis- 
banded fire company for their hose and equipments. It is 
quite a walk to the woodhouse. Every day some new 
feature ot the grounds is discovered. My youngest boy was 
one day missing for several hours. His head — a peculiarly 
venerable and striking object — was at last discovered just 
above the grass at some distance from the house. On 
examination, he was found comfortably seated in a disused 
drain, in company with a silver spoon and a dead rat. On 
being removed from this locality he howled dismally and 
refused to be comforted. 

The view from my surburban residence is fine. Lone 
Mountain, with its white obelisks, is a suggestive if not 
cheering termination of the vista in one direction, while the 
old receiving vault of Yerba Buena Cemetery limits the view 
in another. Most of the funerals w'hich take place pass my 
house. My children, with the charming imitativeness that 


My Suburban Residence, 255 

belongs to youth, have caught the spirit of these passing 
corteges, and reproduce in the back yard, with creditable 
skill, the salient features of the lugubrious procession. A 
doll, from whose features all traces of vitality and expres- 
sion have been removed, represents the deceased. Yet 
unfortunately I have been obliged to promise them moi’C 
active participation in this ceremony at some future time, 
and I fear that they look anxiously forward with the glowing 
impatience of youth to the speedy removal of some one of 
my circle of friends. I am told that the eldest, with the 
unsophisticated frankness that belongs to his age, made a 
personal request to that effect to one of my acquaintances. 
One singular result of the frequency of these funerals is the 
development of a critical and fastidious taste in such 
matters on the part of myself and family. If I may so 
express myself without irreverence, we seldom turn out for 
anything less than six carriages. Any number over this 
is usually breathlessly announced by Bridget as “Here’s 
another, mum, — and a good long one.” 

With these slight drawbacks my suburban residence is 
charming. To the serious poet and writer of elegiac verses, 
the aspect of Nature, viewed from my veranda, is sugges- 
tive. I myself have experienced moments when the “ sad 
mechanic exercise” of verse would have been of infinite 
relief. The following stanzas, by a young friend who has 
been stopping with me for the benefit of his health, 
addressed to a duck that frequented a small pond in the 
vicinity of my mansion, may be worthy of perusal. I think 
I have met the idea conveyed in the first verse in some of 
Hood’s prose, but as my friend assures me that Hood was 
loo conscientious to appropriate anything not his own, I 
conclude I am mistaken. 


256 


My Suburban Residence, 


LINES TO A WATER-FOWU 
(Intra Muros.) 

L 

Fowl, that sing’st in yonder pool. 

Where the summer winds blow cool. 

Are there hydropathic cures 
For the ills that man endures ? 

Know’st thou Priessnitz ? What? alacki 
Hast no other word but “ Quack ? ” 

II. 

Cleopatra’s barge might pale 
To the splendours of thy tail. 

Or the stately caravel 

Of some “ high-pooped admiraL** 

Never yet left such a wake 
E’en the navigator Drake 1 

III. 

Dux thou art, and leader, too, 

Heeding not what’s falling duel** 
Knowing not of debt or dun, — 

Thou dost heed no bill but one ; 

And, though scarce conceivable, 

That*s a bill receivable. 

Made — that thou thy stars mightst think W 
Payable at the next bank. 


( 257 ) 


(Cfje Kufns of ©an jFrancistco. 

Towards the close of the nineteenth century, the city 
of San Francisco was totally engulfed by an earthquake. 
Although the whole coast-line must have been much shaken, 
the accident seems to have been purely local, and even the 
city of Oakland escaped. Schwappelfurt, the celebrated 
German geologist, has endeavoured to explain this singular 
fact by suggesting that there are some things the earth 
cannot swallow, — a statement that should be received with 
some caution, as exceeding the latitude of ordinary geological 
speculation. 

Historians disagree in the exact date of the calamity. 
Tulu Krish, the well-known New Zealander, whose admir- 
able speculations on the ruins of St. Paulas as seen from 
London Bridge, have won for him the attentive considera- 
tion of the scientific world, fixes the occurrence in a.d. 1880. 
This, supposing the city to have been actually founded in 
1850, as asserted, would give but thirty years for it to have 
assumed the size and proportions it had evidently attained 
at the time of its destruction. It is not our purpose, how- 
ever, to question the conclusions of the justly-famed Maorian 
philosopher. Our present business lies with the excavations 
that are now being prosecuted by order of the Hawaiian 
Government upon the site of the lost city. Every one is 
familiar with the story of its discovery. For many years the 
Bay of San Francisco had been famed for the luscioua 

VOL. II. R 


25? The Ruins of San Francisco, 

quality of its oysters. It is stated that a dredger one day 
raked up a large bell, which proved to belong to the City 
Hall, and led to the discovery of the cupola of that build- 
ing. The attention of the Government was at once directed 
to the spot. The Bay of San Francisco was speedily drained 
by a system of patent siphons, and the city, deeply embedded 
in mud, brought to light after a burial of many centuries. 
The City Hall, Post Office, Mint, and Custom House were 
readily recognised by the large full-fed barnacles which 
adhered to their walls. Shortly afterwards the first skeleton 
was discovered, that of a broker, whose position in the 
upper strata of mud nearer the surface was supposed to be 
owing to the exceeding buoyancy or inflation of scrip which 
he had secured about his person while endeavouring to 
escape. Many skeletons, supposed to be those of females, 
encompassed in that peculiar steel coop or cage whic^ 
seems to have been worn by the women of that period, 
were also found in the upper stratum. Alexis von Puffer 
in his admirable work on San Francisco, accounts for ths 
position of these unfortunate creatures by asserting that 
the steel cage was originally the frame of a parachute-like 
garment which distended the skirt, and in the submersion 
of the city prevented them from sinking. “ If anything,” 
says Von Puffer, “ could have been wanting to add intensity 
to the horrible catastrophe which took place as the waters 
first entered the city, it would have been furnished in the 
forcible separation of the sexes at this trying moment 
Buoyed up by their peculiar garments, the female popula- 
tion instantly ascended to the surface. As the drowning 
husband turned his eyes above, what must have been his 
agony as he saw his wife shooting upward, and knew that 
he was debarred the privilege of perishing with her ? To 
the lasting honour of the male inhabitants be it said that 
but few seem to have availed themselves of their wife*! 


The Ruins of San Francisco, 259 

luperior levity. Only one skeleton was found still grasping 
the ankles of another in their upward journey to the 
surface.” 

For many years California had been subject to slight 
earthquakes, more or less generally felt, but not of sufficient 
importance to awaken anxiety or fear. Perhaps the absorb- 
ing nature of the San Franciscans’ pursuit of gold-getting, 
which metal seems to have been valuable in those days, 
and actually used as a medium of currency, rendered the 
inhabitants reckless of all other matters. Everything tends 
to show that the calamity was totally unlooked for. We 
quote the graphic language of Schwappelfurt : — 

“ The morning of the tremendous catastrophe probably 
dawned upon the usual restless crowd of gold-getters intent 
upon their several avocations. The streets were filled with 
the expanded figures of gaily dressed women, acknowledging 
with coy glances the respectful salutations of beaux as they 
gracefully raised their remarkable cylindrical head-coverings, 
a model of which is still preserved in the Honolulu Museum. 
The brokers had gathered at their respective temples. The 
shopmen were exhibiting their goods. The idlers, or 
‘ Bummers,’ — a term applied to designate an aristocratic 
privileged class, who enjoyed immunities from labour, and 
from whom a majority of the rulers were chosen, — were list- 
lessly regarding the promenaders from the street-corners 
or the doors of their bibulous temple. A slight premonitory 
thrill runs through the city. The busy life of this restless 
microcosm is arrested. The shopkeeper pauses as he 
elevates the goods to bring them into a favourable light, 
and the glib professional recommendation sticks on his 
tongue. In the drinking saloon the glass is checked half- 
way to the lips ; on the streets the promenaders pause. 
Another thrill, and the city begins to go down, a few of the 
more persistent topers turning off their liquor at the same 


26 o The Ruins of San Francisco, 

moment. Beyond a terrible sensation of nausea, the crowds 
who now throng the streets do not realise the extent of the 
catastrophe. The waters of the bay recede at first from 
the centre of depression, assuming a concave shape, the 
outer edge of the circle towering many thousand feet above 
the city. Another convulsion and the water instantly 
resumes its level. The city is smoothly engulfed nine 
thousand feet below, and the regular swell of the Pacific 
calmly rolls over it. Terrible,” says Schwappelfurt, in con- 
clusion, “ as the calamity must have been in direct relation 
to the individuals immediately concerned therein, we cannot 
but admire its artistic management, the division of the 
catastrophe into three periods, the completeness of the 
cataclysms, and the rare combination of sincerity of inten- 
tion with felicity of execution.” 


SPANISH AND AMERICAN LEGENDS. 


» 


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« 


t 




I. • . 



J 4 

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I 




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( 263 ) 


Cfje EegenD of ^onte Del Diafilo. 

The cautious reader will detect a lack of authenticity in 
the following pages. I am not a cautious reader myself, 
yet I confess with some concern to the absence of much 
documentary evidence in support of the singular incident I 
am about to relate. Disjointed memoranda, the proceed- 
ings of ayuntamientos and early departmental juntas, with 
other records of a primitive and superstitious people, have 
been my inadequate authorities. It is but just to state, 
however, that though this particular story lacks corrobora- 
tion, in ransacking the Spanish archives of Upper Califor- 
nia I have met with many more surprising and incredible 
stories, attested and supported to a degree that would have 
placed this legend beyond a cavil or doubt. I have, also, 
never lost faith in the legend myself, and in so doing have 
profited much from the examples of divers grant-claimants, 
who have often jostled me in their more practical researches, 
and who have my sincere sympathy at the scepticism of a 
modern hard-headed and practical world. 

For many years after Father Junipero Serro first rang his 
bell in the wilderness of Upper California, the spirit which 
animated that adventurous priest did not wane. The con- 
version of the heathen went on rapidly in the establishment 
of Missions throughout the land. So sedulously did the 
good Fathers set about their work, that around their isolated 
chapels there presently aros'e adohe huts, whose mud' 


264 The Legend of Monte del Diablo. 

plastered and savage tenants partook regularly of the pro- 
visions, and occasionally of the Sacrament, of their pious 
hosts,, Nay, 30 great was their progress, that one zealous 
Padre is reported to have administered the Lord’s Supper 
one Sabbath morning to “ over three hundred heathen sal- 
vages.” It was not to be wondered that the Enemy of 
Souls, being greatly incensed thereat, and alarmed at his 
decreasing popularity, should have grievously tempted and 
embarrassed these holy Fathers, as we shall presently see. 

Yet they were happy, peaceful days for California. The 
vagrant keels of prying Commerce had not as yet ruffled 
the lordly gravity of her bays. No torn and ragged gulch 
betrayed the suspicion of golden treasure. The wild oats 
drooped idly in the morning heat or wrestled with the 
afternoon breezes. Deer and antelope dotted the plain. 
The watercourses brawled in their familiar channels, nor 
dreamed of ever shifting their regular tide. The wonders 
of the Yosemite and Calaveras were as yet unrecorded. 
The holy Fathers noted little of the landscape beyond the 
barbaric prodigality with which the quick soil repaid the 
sowing. A new conversion, the advent of a saint’s day, or 
the baptism of an Indian baby, was at once the chronicle 
and marvel of their day. 

At this blissful epoch there lived at the Mission of San 
Pablo Father Jose Antonio Haro, a worthy brother of the 
Society of Jesus. He was of tall and cadaverous aspect. 
A somewhat romantic history had given a poetic interest to 
his lugubrious visage. While a youth pursuing his studies 
at famous Salamanca, he had become enamoured of the 
charms of Dona Carmen de Torrencevara, as that lady 
passed to her matutinal devotions. Untoward circum- 
stances, hastened, perhaps, by a wealthier suitor, brought 
this amour to a disastrous issue, and Father Jos^ entered a 
monastery, taking upon himself the vows of celibacy. It 


The Legend of Monte del Diablo, 265 

was here that his natural fervour and poetic enthusiasm 
conceived expression as a missionary. A longing to convert 
the uncivilised heathen succeeded his frivolous earthly pas- 
sion, and a desire to explore and develop unknown fast- 
nesses continually possessed him. In his flashing eye and 
sombre exterior was detected a singular commingling of 
the discreet Las Casas and the impetuous Balboa. 

Fired by this pious zeal, Father Jose went forward in the 
van of Christian pioneers. On reaching Mexico he obtained 
authority to establish the Mission of San Pablo. Like the 
good Junipero, accompanied only by an acolyte and mule- 
teer, he unsaddled his mules in a dusky canon, and rang his 
bell in the wilderness. The savages — a peaceful, inoffensive, 
and inferior race — presently flocked around him. The 
nearest military post was far away, which contributed much 
to the security of these pious pilgrims, who found their open 
trustfulness and amiability better fitted to repress hostility 
than the presence of an armed, suspicious, and brawling 
soldiery. So the good Father Jos^ said matins and prime, 
mass and vespers, in the heart of sin and heathenism, 
taking no heed to himself, but looking only to the welfare 
of the Holy Church. Conversions soon followed, and on 
the 7th of July 1760, the first Indian baby was baptized, — 
an event which, as Father Josd piously records, “ exceeds 
the richnesse of gold or precious jewels or the chancing 
upon the Ophir of Solomon.” I quote this incident as best 
suited to show the ingenious blending of poetry and piety 
which distinguished Father Josd’s record. 

The Mission of San Pablo progressed and prospered, 
until the pious founder thereof, like the infidel Alexander, 
might have wept that there were no more heathen worlds 
to conquer. But his ardent and enthusiastic spirit could 
not long brook an idleness that seemed begotten of sin ; 
and one pleasant August morning in the year of grace 1770, 


266 The Legend of Monte del Diablo. 

Father Jos^ issued from the outer court of the Mission build, 
ing, equipped to explore the field for new missionary labour^ 

Nothing could exceed the quiet gravity and unpreten- 
tiousness of the little cavalcade. First rode a stout mule- 
teer, leading a pack-mule laden with the provisions of the 
party, together with a few cheap crucifixes and hawks’ bells. 
After him came the devout Padre Jose, bearing his breviary 
and cross, with a black serapa thrown around his shoulders ; 
while on either side trotted a dusky convert, anxious to 
show a proper sense of their regeneration by acting as 
guides into the wilds of their heathen brethren. Their new 
condition was agreeably shown by the absence of the usual 
mud-plaster, which in their unconverted state they assumed 
to keep away vermin and cold. The morning was bright 
and propitious. Before their departure, mass had been 
said in the chapel, and the protection of St. Ignatius 
invoked against all contingent evils, but especially against 
bears, which, like the fiery dragons of old, seemed to 
cherish unconquerable hostility to the Holy Church. 

As they wound through the canon, charming birds dis- 
ported upon boughs and sprays, and sober quails piped 
from the alders ; the willowy watercourses gave a musical 
utterance, and the long grass whispered on the hillside. 
On entering the deeper defiles, above them towered dark 
green masses of pine, and occasionally the viadroiio shook 
its bright scarlet berries. As they toiled up many a steep 
ascent. Father Jose sometimes picked up fragments of 
scoria, which spake to his imagination of direful volcanoes 
and impending earthquakes. To the less scientific mind of 
the muleteer Ignacio they had even a more terrifying signi- 
ficance ; and he once or twice snuffed the air suspiciously, 
and declared that it smelt of sulphur. So the first day ol 
their journey wore away, and at night they encamped with- 
out having met a single heathen face. 


The Legend of Monte del Diablo, 267 

It was on this night that the Enemy of Souls appeared 
to Ignacio in an appalling form. He had retired to a 
secluded part of the camp and had sunk upon his knees 
in prayerful meditation, when he looked up and perceived 
the Arch-Fiend in the likeness of a monstrous bear. The 
Evil One was seated on his hind legs immediately before 
him, with his fore-paws joined together just below his black 
muzzle. Wisely conceiving this remarkable attitude to be 
in mockery and derision of his devotions, the worthy mule- 
teer was transported with fury. Seizing an arquebuse, he 
instantly closed his eyes and fired. When he had recovered 
from the effects of the terrific discharge, the apparition had 
disappeared. Father Jose, awakened by the report, reached 
the spot only in time to chide the muleteer for wasting 
powder and ball in a contest with one whom a single ave 
would have been sufficient to utterly discomfit. What 
further reliance he placed on Ignacio’s story is not known \ 
but, in commemoration of a worthy Californian custom, 
the place was called La Canada de la Tentacmi del Pio 
Muletero^ or “The Glen of the Temptation of the Pious 
Muleteer,” a name which it retains to this day. 

The next morning the party, issuing from a narrow gorge, 
came upon a long valley, sear and burnt with the shadeless 
heat Its lower extremity was lost in a fading line of low 
hills, which, gathering might and volume toward the upper 
end of the valley, upheaved a stupendous bulwark against 
the breezy north. The peak of this awful spur was just 
touched by a fleecy cloud that shifted to and fro like a 
banneret Father Jose gazed at it with mingled awe 
and admiration. By a singular comcidence, the muleteer 
Ignacio uttered the simple ejaculation “ Diablo 1 ” 

As they penetrated the valley, they soon began to miss 
the agreeable life and companionable echoes of the canon 
they had quitted. Huge fissures in the parched soil seemed 


268 The Legend of Monte del Diablo. 

to gape as with thirsty mouths. A few squirrels darted 
from the earth and disappeared as mysteriously before the 
jingling mules. A grey wolf trotted leisurely along just 
ahead. But whichever way Father Jos^ turned, the moun- 
tain always asserted itself and arrested his wandering eye. 
Out of the dry and arid valley it seemed to spring into 
cooler and bracing life. Deep cavernous shadows dwelt 
along its base; rocky fastnesses appeared midway of its 
elevation ; and on either side huge black hills diverged 
like massy roots from a central trunk. His lively fancy 
pictured these hills peopled with a majestic and intelligent 
race of savages ; and looking into futurity, he already saw 
a monstrous cross crowning the dome-like summit. Far 
different were the sensations of the muleteer, who saw in 
those awful solitudes only fiery dragons, colossal bears, and 
breakneck trails. The converts, Concepcion and Incarna- 
cion, trotting modestly beside the Padre, recognised perhaps 
some manifestation of their former weird mythology. 

At nightfall they reached the base of the mountain. 
Here Father Josd unpacked his mules, said vespers, and, 
formally ringing his bell, called upon the Gentiles within 
hearing to come and accept the holy faith. The echoes 
of the black frowning hills around him caught up the pious 
invitation and repeated it at intervals ; but no Gentiles 
appeared that night. Nor were the devotions of the mule- 
teer again disturbed, although he afterward asserted that, 
when the Father’s exhortation was ended, a mocking peal 
of laughter came from the mountain. Nothing daunted by 
these intimations of the near hostility of the Evil One, 
Father Jos^ declared his intention to ascend the mountain 
at early dawn, and before the sun rose the next morning 
he was leading the way. 

The ascent was in many places difficult and dangerous. 
Huge fragments of rock often lay across the trail, and afte* 


The Legend of Monte del Diablo, 269 

a few hours’ climbing they were forced to leave their mules 
in a little gully and continue the ascent afoot. Unaccus- 
tomed to such exertion, Father Jos<^ often stopped to wipe 
the perspiration from his thin cheeks. As the day wore 
on a strange silence oppressed them. Except the occasional 
pattering of a squirrel, or a rustling in the chimisal bushes, 
there were no signs of life. The half-human print of a 
bear’s foot sometimes appeared before them, at which 
Ignacio always crossed himself piously. The eye was 
sometimes cheated by a dripping from the rocks, which on 
closer inspection proved to be a resinous oily liquid with 
an abominable sulphurous smell. When they were within 
a short distance of the summit, the discreet Ignacio, select- 
ing a sheltered nook for the camp, slipped aside and busied 
himself in preparations for the evening, leaving the holy 
Father to continue the ascent alone. Never was there a 
more thoughtless act of prudence, never a more imprudent 
piece of caution. Without noticing the desertion, buried 
in pious reflection, Father Jos^ pushed mechanically on, 
and, reaching the summit, cast himself down and gazed 
upon the prospect. 

Below him lay a succession of valleys opening into each 
other like gentle lakes, until they were lost to the southward. 
Westerly the distant range hid the bosky Canada which 
sheltered the Mission of San Pablo. In the farther distance 
the Pacific Ocean stretched away, bearing a cloud of fog 
upon its bosom, which crept through the entrance of the 
bay, and rolled thickly between him and the north-east- 
ward ; the same fog hid the base of mountain and the view 
beyond. Still from time to time the fleecy veil parted, 
and timidly disclosed charming glimpses of mighty rivers, 
mountain defiles, and rolling plains, sear with ripened oats 
and bathed in the glow of the setting sun. As Father Jos^ 
gazed, he was penetrated with a pious longing. Already 


2'jo The Legend of Monte del Diablo, 

his imagination, filled with enthusiastic conceptions, beheld 
all that vast expanse gathered under the mild sway of the 
holy faith and peopled with zealous converts. Each little 
knoll in fancy became crowned with a chapel ; from each 
dark canon gleamed the white walls of a Mission building. 
Growing bolder in his enthusiasm and looking farther into 
futurity, he beheld a new Spain rising on these savage 
shores. He already saw the spires of stately cathedrals, 
the domes of palaces, vineyards, gardens, and groves. 
Convents, half hid among the hills, peeping from planta- 
tions of branching limes, and long processions of chanting 
nuns wound through the defiles. So completely was the 
good Father’s conception of the future confounded with 
the past, that even in their choral strain the well-remem- 
bered accents of Carmen struck his ear. He was busied 
in these fanciful imaginings, when suddenly over that 
extended prospect the faint distant tolling of a bell rang 
sadly out and died. It was the Angelus. Father Jos^ 
istened with superstitious exaltation. The Mission of San 
^ablo was far away, and the sound must have been some 
miraculous omen. But never before, to his enthusiastic 
sense, did the sweet seriousness of this angelic symbol 
come with such strange significance. With the last faint 
peal his glowing fancy seemed to cool ; the fog closed in 
below him, and the good Father remembered he had not 
had his supper. He had risen and was wrapping his 
^irapa around him, when he perceived for the first time 
that he was not alone. 

Nearly opposite, and where should have been the faithless 
Ignacio, a grave and decorous figure was seated. His 
appearance was that of an elderly hidalgo, dressed in 
oiourning, with mustaches of iron-grey carefully waxed and 
twisted round a pair of lantern-jaws. The monstrous hat 
and prodigious feather, the enormous ruff and exaggerated 


The Legend of Monte del Diablo, 27 1 

trunk -hose, contrasted with a frame shrivelled and wizened, 
all belonged to a century previous. Yet Father Jos^ was 
not astonished. His adventurous life and poetic imagina- 
tion, continually on the look-out for the marvellous, gave 
him a certain advantage over the practical and njaterial 
minded. He instantly detected the diabolical quality of 
his visitant and was prepared. With equal coolness and 
courtesy he met the cavalier’s obeisance. 

“ I ask your pardon, Sir Priest,” said the stranger, “ for 
disturbing your meditations. Pleasant they must have been, 
and right fanciful, I imagine, when occasioned by so fair a 
prospect. ” 

“Worldly, perhaps, Sir Devil, — for such I take you to 
be,” said the holy Father, as the stranger bowed his black 
plumes to the ground ; “ worldly, perhaps ; for it hath 
pleased Heaven to retain even in our regenerated state 
much that pertaineth to the flesh, yet still, I trust, not with- 
out some speculation for the welfare of the Holy Church. 
In dwelling upon yon fair expanse, mine eyes have been 
graciously opened with prophetic inspiration, and the pro- 
mise of the heathen as an inheritance hath marvellously 
recurred to me. For there can be none lack such diligence 
in the true faith but may see that even the conversion 
of these pitiful salvages hath a meaning. As the blessed 
St. Ignatius discreetly observes,” continued Father Josd, 
clearing his throat and slightly elevating his voice, “ ‘ the 
heathen is given to the warriors of Christ, even as the pearls 
vof rare discovery which gladden the hearts of shipmen. 
Nay, I might say ” 

But here the stranger, who had been wrinkling his brow o 
and twisting his mustaches with well-bred patience, took 
advantage of an oratorical pause. 

“ It grieves me. Sir Priest, to interrupt the current o! 
four eloquence as discourteously as I have already broken 


2f2 The Legend of Monte del Diablo, 

jrour meditations ; but the day already waneth to night 1 
have a matter of serious import to make with you, could I 
entreat your cautious consideration a few moments." 

Father Jose hesitated. The temptation was great, and 
the prospect of acquiring some knowledge of the Great 
Enemy’s plans not the least trifling object And, if the 
truth must be told, there was a certain decorum about the 
stranger that interested the Padre. Though well aware of 
the Protean shapes the Arch-Fiend could assume, and 
though free from the weaknesses of the flesh, Father Josd 
was not above the temptations of the spirit. Had the 
Devil appeared, as in the case of the pious St. Anthony, in 
the likeness of a comely damsel, the good Father, with his 
certain experience of the deceitful sex, would have whisked 
her away in the saying of a paternoster. But there was, 
added to the security of age, a grave sadness about the 
stranger, — a thoughtful consciousness, as of being at a great 
moral disadvantage,— which at once decided him on a 
magnanimous course of conduct 

The stranger then proceeded to inform him that he had 
been diligently observing the holy Father’s triumphs in the 
valley. That, far from being greatly exercised thereat, he 
had been only grieved to see so enthusiastic and chivalrous 
an antagonist wasting his zeal in a hopeless work. For, he 
observed, the issue of the great battle of Good and Evil 
had been otherwise settled, as he would presently show him. 
“ It wants but a few moments of night,” he continued, “ and 
over this interval of twilight, as you know, I have been 
given complete control. Look to the west.” 

As the Padre turned, the stranger took his enormous hat 
from his head and waved it three times before him. At 
each sweep of the prodigious feather the fog grew thinner, 
until it melted impalpably away, and the former landscape 
returned, yet warm with the glowing sun. As Father Jos^ 


The Legend of Monte del Diablo, 273 

gazed a strain of martial music arose from the valley, and 
issuing from a deep canon, the good Father beheld a long 
cavalcade of gallant cavaliers, habited like his companion. 
As they swept down the plain, they were joined by like 
processions, that slowly defiled from every ravine and canon 
of the mysterious mountain. From time to time the peal 
of a trumpet swelled fitfully upon the breeze ; the cross of 
Santiago glittered, and the royal banners of Castile and 
Aragon waved over the moving column. So they moved 
on solemnly toward the sea, where, in the distance, Father 
Josd saw stately caravels, bearing the same familiar banner, 
awaiting them. The good Padre gazed with conflicting 
emotions, and the serious voice of the stranger broke the 
silence. 

“Thou hast beheld, Sir Priest, the fading footprints of 
adventurous Castile. Thou hast seen the declining glory 
of old Spain, — declining as yonder brilliant sun. The 
sceptre she hath wrested from the heathen is fast dropping 
from her decrepit and fleshless grasp. The children she 
hath fostered shall know her no longer. The soil she hath 
acquired shall be lost to her as irrevocably as she herself 
hath thrust the Moor from her own Granada.” 

The stranger paused, and his voice seemed broken by 
emotion ; at the same time. Father Jos^, whose sympathis- 
ing heart yearned toward the departing banners, cried in 
poignant accents — 

“ Farewell, ye gallant cavaliers and Christian soldiers ! 
Farewell, thou, Nunes de Balboa ! thou, Alonzo de Ojeda I 
and thou, most venerable Las Casas ! farewell, and may 
Heaven prosper still the seed ye left behind ! ” 

Then turning to the stranger. Father Tosd beheld him 
gravely draw his pocket-handkerchief from the basket-hilt of 
his rapier and apply it decorously to his eyes. 

“Pardon this weakness. Sir Priest,” said the cavalier 

VOL. ri. s 


274 Legend of Monte del Diablo. 

apologetically ; “ but these worthy gentlemen were ancient 
friends of mine, and have done me many a delicate service, 
— much more, perchance, than these poor sables may 
signify,” he added, with a grim gesture toward the mourn- 
ing suit he wore. 

Father Jose was too much preoccupied in reflection to 
notice the equivocal nature of this tribute, and, after a few 
moments’ silence, said, as if continuing his thought — 

“ But the seed they have planted shall thrive and prosper 
on this fruitful soil” 

As if answering the interrogatory, the stranger turned to 
the opposite direction, and again waving his hat, said, in 
the same serious tone — 

“ Look to the East ! ” 

The Father turned, and, as the fog broke away before 
the waving plume, he saw that the sun was rising. Issuing 
with its bright beams through the passes of the snowy 
mountains beyond appeared a strange and motley crew. 
Instead of the dark and romantic visages of his last phantom 
train, the Father beheld with strange concern the blue eyes 
and flaxen hair of a Saxon race. In place of martial airs 
and musical utterance, there rose upon the ear a strange 
din of harsh gutturals and singular sibilation. Instead of 
the decorous tread and stately mien of the cavaliers of the 
former vision, they came pushing, bustling, panting, and swag- 
gering. And as they passed, the good Father noticed that 
giant trees were prostrated as with the breath of a tornado, 
and the bowels of the earth were torn and rent as with a 
convulsion. And Father Josd looked in vain for holy cross 
or Christian symbol; there was but one that seemed an 
ensign, and he crossed himself with holy horror as he per- 
ceived it bore the efligy of a bear. 

“Who are these swaggering Ishmaelites ? ” he asked, 
with something of asperity in his tone. 


The Legend of Monte del Diablo, 275 

The stranger was gravely silent. 

“ What do they here, with neither cross nor holy symbol ? ” 
he again demanded. 

“ Have you the courage to see, Sir Priest ? ” responded 
the stranger quietly. 

Father Jos^ felt his crucifix, as a lonely traveller might 
his rapier, and assented. 

“ Step under the shadow of my plume,” said the stranger. 

Father Josd stepped beside him, and they instantly sank 
through the earth. 

When he opened his eyes, which had remained closed in 
prayerful meditation during his rapid descent, he found 
himself in a vast vault, bespangled overhead with luminous 
points like the starred firmament. It was also lighted by a 
yellow glow that seemed to proceed from a mighty sea or 
lake that occupied the centre of the chamber. Around this 
subterranean sea dusky figures flitted, bearing ladles filled 
with the yellow fluid, which they had replenished from its 
depths. From this lake diverging streams of the same 
mysterious flood penetrated like mighty rivers the cavernous 
distance. As they walked by the banks of this glittering 
Styx, Father ]os6 perceived how the liquid stream at certain 
places became solid. The ground was strewn with glitter- 
ing flakes. One of these the Padre picked up and curiously 
examined. It was virgin gold. 

An expression of discomfiture overcast the good Father’s 
face at this discovery ; but there was trace neither of malice 
nor satisfaction in the stranger’s air, which was still of serious 
and fateful contemplation. When Father Josd recovered 
his equanimity, he said, bitterly — 

“ This, then. Sir Devil, is your work ! This is your 
deceitful lure for the weak souls of sinful nations! So 
would you replace the Christian grace of Holy Spain I ” 

“ This is what must be,” returned the stranger gloomily. 


2/6 Legend of Monte del Diablo. 

“ But listen, Sir Priest. It lies with you to avert the issue 
for a time. Leave me here in peace. Go back to Castile, 
and take with you your bells, your images, and your 
missions. Continue here, and you only precipitate results. 
Stay ; promise me you will do this, and you shall not lack 
that which will render your old age an ornament and a 
blessing;” and the stranger motioned significantly to the 
lake. 

It was here, the legend discreetly relates, that the Devil 
showed — as he always shows sooner or later — his cloven hoof. 
The worthy Padre, sorely perplexed by this threefold 
vision, and, if the truth must be told, a little nettled at this 
wresting away of the glory of holy Spanish discovery, had 
shown some hesitation. But the unlucky bribe of the 
Enemy of Souls touched his Castilian spirit. Starting back 
in deep disgust, he brandished his crucifix in the face of the 
unmasked Fiend, and in a voice that made the dusky vault 
resound cried — 

“ Avaunt thee, Sathanas ! Diabolus, I defy thee ! What ! 
wouldst thou bribe me, — me, a brother of the Sacred Society 
of the Holy Jesus, Licentiate of Cordova and Inquisitor of 
Guadalaxara? Thinkest thou to buy me with thy sordid 
treasure ? Avaunt ! ” 

What might have been the issue of this rupture, and how 
complete might have been the triumph of the holy Father 
pver the Archfiend, who was recoiling aghast at these 
sacred titles and the flourishing symbol, we can never know, 
for at that moment the crucifix slipped through his fingers. 

Scarcely had it touched the ground before Devil and 
holy Father simultaneously cast themselves toward it. In 
the struggle they clinched, and the pious Jos^, who was as 
much the superior of his antagonist in bodily as in spiritual 
strength, was about to treat the Great Adversary to a back 
tomersault, when he suddenly felt the long nails of the 


The Legend of Monte del Diablo, 277 

stranger piercing his flesh. A new fear seized his heart, a 
numbling chillness crept through his body, and he struggled 
to free himself, but in vain. A strange roaring was in his 
ears ; the lake and cavern danced before his eyes and 
vanished, and with a loud cry he sank senseless to the 
ground. 

When he recovered his consciousness, he was aware of a 
gentle swaying motion of his body. He opened his eyes, 
and saw it was high noon, and that he was being carried in 
a litter through the valley. He felt stiff, and looking down, 
perceived that his arm was tightly bandaged to his side. 

He closed his eyes and after a few words of thankful 
prayer, thought how miraculously he had been preserved, 
and made a vow of candlesticks to the blessed Saint Josd 
He then called in a faint voice, and presently the penitent 
Ignacio stood beside him. 

The joy the poor fellow felt at his patron^s returning 
consciousness for some time choked his utterance. He 
could only ejaculate, “ A miracle ! Blessed Saint Josd, 
he lives ! ” and kiss the Padre’s bandaged hand. Father 
Jos^, more intent on his last night’s experience, waited for 
his emotion to subside, and asked where he had been found. 

“ On the mountain, your Reverence, but a few varas 
from where he attacked you.” 

“ How ? — you saw him then ? ” asked the Padre in 
unfeigned astonishment 

“ Saw him, your Reverence ! Mother of God ! I should 
think I did ! And your Reverence shall see him too, if he 
ever comes again within range of Ignacio’s arquebuse.” 

“What mean you, Ignacio?” said the Padre, sitting 
bolt-upright in his litter. 

“ Why, the bear, your Reverence, — the bear, holy 
Father, who attacked your worshipful person while you 
were m^itating on the top of yonder mountain.” 


2 78 The Legend of Monte del Diablo. 

“ Ah ! ” said the holy Father, lying down again. “ Chut, 
child 1 I would be at peace.” 

When he reached the Mission he was tenderly cared for, 
and in a few weeks was enabled to resume those duties from 
which, as will be seen, not even the machinations of the 
Evil One could divert him. The news of his physical 
disaster spread over the country, and a letter to the Bishop 
of Guadalaxara contained a confidential and detailed 
account of the good Father’s spiritual temptation. But in 
some way the story leaked out; and long after Josd was 
gathered to his fathers, his mysterious encounter formed 
the theme of thrilling and whispered narrative. The moun- 
tain was generally shunned. It is true that Senor Joaquin 
Pedrillo afterward located a grant near the base of the 
mountain ; but as Senora Pedrillo was known to be a 
termagant half-breed, the Senor was not supposed to be 
over-fastidious. 

Such is the legend of Monte del Diablo. As I said 
before, it may seem to lack essential corroboration. The 
discrepancy between the Father’s narrative and the actual 
climax has given rise to some scepticism on the part of 
ingenious quibblers. All such I would simply refer to 
that part of the report of Senor Julio Serro, Sub-Prefect 
of San Pablo, before whom attest of the above was made. 
Touching this matter, the worthy Prefect observes, “ That 
although the body of Father Josd doth show evidence of 
grievous conflict in the flesh, yet that is no proof that the 
Enemy of Souls, who could assume the figure of a decorous 
elderly cahallero^ could not at the same time transform him- 
•elf into a bear for his own vile purposes.” 


( 279 ) 


Cfie Kigftt OEge of tfie (KommanOer. 

The year of grace 1797 passed away on the coast oi 
California in a south-westerly gale. The little bay of San 
Carlos, albeit sheltered by the headlands of the Blessed 
Trinity, was rough and turbulent ; its foam clung quivering 
to the seaward wall of the Mission garden ; the air was 
filled with flying sand and spume, and as the Sehor Coman- 
dante, Hermenegildo Salvatierra, looked from the deep 
embrasured window of the Presidio guardroom, he felt the 
salt breath of the distant sea buffet a colour into his smoke- 
dried cheeks. 

The Commander, I have said, was gazing thoughtfully 
from the window of the guardroom. He may have been 
reviewing the events of the year now about to pass away. 
But, like the garrison at the Presidio, there was little to 
review. The year, like its predecessors, had been uneventful, 
— the days had slipped by in a delicious monotony of 
simple duties, unbroken by incident or interruption. The 
regularly recurring feasts and saints’ days, the half-yearly 
courier from San Diego, the rare transport-ship and rarer 
foreign, vessel, were the mere details of his patriarchal life. 
If there was no achievement, there was certainly no failure. 
Abundant harvests and patient industry amply supplied the 
wants of Presidio and Mission. Isolated from the family 
of nations, the wars which shook the world concerned them 
KOt so much as the last earthquake; the struggle that 


28 o The Right Eye of the Commander. 

emancipated their sister colonies on the other side of the 
continent to them had no suggestiveness. In short, it was 
that glorious Indian summer of Californian history around 
which so much poetical haze still lingers, — that bland, 
indolent autumn of Spanish rule, so soon to be followed 
by the wintry storms of Mexican independence and the 
reviving spring of American conquest. 

The Commander turned from the window and walked 
toward the fire that burned brightly on the deep oven-like 
hearth. A pile of copybooks, the work of the Presidio 
school, lay on the table. As he turned over the leaves with 
a paternal interest, and surveyed the fair round Scripture 
text, — the first pious pothooks of the pupils of San Carlos, 
an audible commentary fell from his lips : “ ‘ Abimelech 
took her from Abraham’ — ah, little one, excellent ! — ‘Jacob 
sent to see his brother ’ — body of Christ ! that up-stroke of 
thine, Paquita, is marvellous ; the Governor shall see it ! ” 
A film of honest pride dimmed the Commander’s left eye, — 
the right, alas ! twenty years before had been sealed by an 
Indian arrow. He rubbed it softly with the sleeve of his 
leather jacket and continued : “ ‘ The Ishmaelites having 
arrived’” 

He stopped, for there was a step in the courtyard, a foot 
upon the threshold, and a stranger entered. With the 
instinct of an old soldier, the Commander, after one glance 
at the intruder, turned quickly toward the wall, where his 
trusty Toledo hung, or should have been hanging. But it 
was not there, and as he recalled that the last time he had 
seen that weapon it was being ridden up and down the 
gallery by Pepito, the infant son of Bautista, the tortilio 
maker, he blushed and then contented himself with frown- 
ing upon the intruder. 

But the stranger’s air, though irreverent, was decidedly 
peaceful He was unarmed, and wore the ordinary cape ol 


The Right Eye of the Commander, 281 

tarpauling and sea-boots of a mariner. Except a villanous 
smell of codfish, there was little about him that was 
peculiar. 

His name, as he informed the Commander in Spanish 
that was more fluent than elegant or precise, — his name was 
Peleg Scudder. He was master of the schooner “ General 
Court,” of the port of Salem, in Massachusetts, on a trad- 
ing voyage to the South Seas, but now driven by stress of 
weather into the bay of San Carlos. He begged permission 
to ride out the gale under the headlands of the Blessed 
Trinity, and no more. Water he did not need, having 
taken in a supply at Bodega. He knew the strict surveil- 
lance of the Spanish port regulations in regard to foreign 
vessels, and would do nothing against the severe discipline 
and good order of the settlement. There was a slight tinge 
of sarcasm in his tone as he glanced toward the desolate 
parade ground of the Presidio and the open unguarded gate. 
The fact was that the sentry, Felipe Gomez, had discreetly 
retired to shelter at the beginning of the storm, . and was 
then sound asleep in the corridor. 

The Commander hesitated. The port regulations were 
severe, but he was accustomed to exercise individual 
authority, and beyond an old order issued ten years before, 
regarding the American ship “ Columbia,” there was no 
precedent to guide him. The storm was severe, and a 
sentiment of humanity urged him to grant the stranger’s 
request It is but just to the Commander to say that his 
inability to enforce a refusal did not weigh with his decision. 
He would have denied with equal disregard of consequences 
that right to a seventy-four gun ship which he now yielded 
so gracefully to this Yankee trading schooner. He stipu- 
lated only that there should be no communica^tion between 
the ship and shore. “For yourself, Senor Captain,” he 
continued, “accept my hospitality The fort is yours ai 


282 The Right Eye of the Commander, 

long as you shall grace it with your distinguished presence,” 
and with old-fashioned courtesy he made the semblance of 
withdrawing from the guardroom. 

Master Peleg Scudder smiled as he thought of the half- 
dismantled fort, the two mouldy brass cannon, cast in 
Manilla a century previous, and the shiftless garrison. A 
wild thought of accepting the Commander’s offer literally, 
conceived in the reckless spirit of a man who never let slip 
an offer for trade, for a moment filled his brain, but a timely 
reflection of the commercial unimportance of the transaction 
checked him. He only took a capacious quid of tobacco, 
as the Commander gravely drew a settle before the fire, and 
in honour of his guest untied the black silk handkerchief 
that bound his grizzled brows. 

What passed between Salvatierra and his guest that night 
it becomes me not, as a grave chronicler of the salient points 
of history, to relate. I have said that Master Peleg Scudder 
was a fluent talker, and under the influence of divers strong 
waters, furnished by his host, he became still more loqua- 
cious. And think of a man with a twenty years’ budget of 
gossip ! The Commander learned, for the first time, how 
Great Britain lost her colonies ; of the French Revolution ; 
of the great Napoleon, whose achievements, perhaps, Peleg 
coloured more highly than the Commander’s superiors 
would have liked. And when Peleg turned questioner, the 
Commander was at his mercy. He gradually made him- 
self master of the gossip of the Mission and Presidio, the 
“ small-beer ” chronicles of that pastoral age, the conversion 
of the heathen, the Presidio schools, and even asked the 
Commander how he had lost his eye ! It is said that at this 
point of the conversation Master Peleg produced from about 
his person divers small trinkets, kickshaws and new-fangled 
trifles, and even forced some of them upon his host. It is 
further alleged that under the malign influence of Peleg and 


The Right Eye of the Commander, 283 

leveral glasses of aguardiente, the Commander lost some- 
w^hat of his decorum, and behaved in a manner unseemly 
Cor one in his position, reciting high-flown Spanish poetry, 
and even piping in a thin high voice divers madrigals and 
heathen canzonets of an amorous completion, chiefly in 
regard to a “little one” who was his, the Commander’s, 
“ soul ! ’* These allegations, perhaps unworthy the notice 
of a serious chronicler, should be received with great cau- 
tion, and are introduced here as simple hearsay. That the 
Commander, however, took a handkerchief and attempted 
to show his guest the mysteries of the sembi cuacua^ caper- 
ing in an agile but indecorous manner about the apartment, 
has been denied. Enough for the purposes of this narrative, 
that at midnight Peleg assisted his host to bed with many 
protestations of undying friendship, and then, as the gale 
had abated, took his leave of the Presidio and hurried 
aboard the “General Court.” When the day broke the 
ship was gone. 

I know not if Peleg kept his word with his host. It is 
said that the holy Fathers at the Mission that night heard a 
loud chanting in the plaza, as of the heathens singing psalms 
through their noses ; that for many days after an odour of 
salt codfish prevailed in the settlement ; that a dozen hard 
nutmegs, which were unfit for spice or seed, were found in 
the possession of the wife of the baker, and that several 
bushels of shoe-pegs, which bore a pleasing resemblance to 
pats, but were quite inadequate to the purposes of pro- 
vender, were discovered in the stable of the blacksmith. 
But when the reader reflects upon the sacredness of a 
Yankee trader’s word, the stringent discipline of the Spanish 
port regulations, and the proverbial indisposition of my 
countrymen to impose upon the confidence of a simple 
people, he will at once reject this part of the story. 

A roll of drums, ushering in the year 1798, awoke the 


284 The Right Eye of the Commander, 

Commander. The sun was shining brightly, and the storm 
had ceased. He sat up in bed, and through the force oi 
habit rubbed his left eye. As the remembrance of the pre- 
vious night came back to him, he jumped from his couch 
and ran to the window. There was no ship in the bay. A 
sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he rubbed both 
of his eyes. Not content with this, he consulted the 
metallic mirror which hung beside his crucifix. There was 
no mistake ; the Commander had a visible second eye, — 
a right one, — as good, save for the purposes of vision, as the 
left. 

Whatever might have been the true secret of this trans- 
formation, but one opinion prevailed at San Carlos. It was 
one of those rare miracles vouchsafed a pious Catholic 
community as an evidence to the heathen, through the 
intercession of the blessed San Carlos himself. That their 
beloved Commander, the temporal defender of the Faith, 
should be the recipient of this miraculous manifestation 
was most fit and seemly. The Commander himself was 
reticent ; he could not tell a falsehood, — he dared not tell 
the truth. After all, if the good folk of San Carlos believed 
that the powers of his right eye were actually restored, was 
it wise and discreet for him to undeceive them ? For the 
^rst time in his life the Commander thought of policy, — for 
the first time he quoted that text which has been the lure 
j>f so many well-meaning but easy Christians, of being “ all 
things to all men.” Infeliz Hermenegildo Salvatierra ! 

For by degrees an ominous whisper crept through the 
little settlement. The right eye of the Commander, 
although miraculous, seemed to exercise a baleful effect 
ipon the beholder. No one could look at it without 
winking. It was cold, hard, relentless, and unflinching 
More than that, it seemed to be endowed with a dreadful 
prescience, — a faculty of seeing through and into th« 


The Right Eye of the Commander. 285 

Inarticulate thoughts of those it looked upon. The soldiers 
of the garrison obeyed the eye rather than the voice of 
their Commander, and answered his glance rather than his 
lips in questioning. The servants could not evade the 
ever-watchful but cold attention that seemed to pursue 
them. The children of the Presidio school smirched 
their copybooks under the awful supervision, and poor 
Paquita, the prize pupil, failed utterly in that marvellous 
up-stroke when her patron stood beside her. Gradually 
distrust, suspicion, self-accusation, and timidity took the 
place of trust, confidence, and security throughout San 
Carlos. Wherever the right eye of the Commander fell, 
a shadow fell with it. 

Nor was Salvatierra entirely free from the baleful influence 
of his miraculous acquisition. Unconscious of its eflect 
upon others, he only saw in their actions evidence of 
certain things that the crafty Peleg had, hinted on that 
eventful New Year’s eve. His most trusty retainers stam- 
mered, blushed, and faltered before him. Self-accusations, 
confessions of minor faults and delinquencies, or extrava- 
|ant excuses and apologies met his mildest inquiries. The 
very children that he loved — his pet pupil, Paquita — 
seemed to be conscious of some hidden sin. The result 
of this constant irritation showed itself more plainly. For 
the first half-year the Commander’s voice and eye were at 
variance. He was still kind, tender, and thoughtful in 
speech. Gradually, however, his voice took upon itself 
.he hardness of his glance and its sceptical, impassive 
quality, and as the year again neared its close it was plain 
that the Commander had fitted himself to the eye, and not 
the eye to the Commander. 

It may be surmised that these changes did not escape 
the watchful solicitude of the Fathers. Indeed, the few 
who were first to ascribe the right eye of Salvatierra to 


286 The Right Eye of the Commander. 

miraculous origin and the special grace of the blessed Sa» 
Carlos, now talked openly of witchcraft and the agency of 
Luzbel, the evil one. It would have fared ill with Her- 
menegildo Salvatierra had he been aught but Commander 
or amenable to local authority. But the reverend Father, 
Friar Manuel de Cortes, had no power over the political 
executive, and all attempts at spiritual advice failed signally. 
He retired baffled and confused from his first interview 
with the Commander, who seemed now to take a grim 
satisfaction in the fateful power of his glance. The holy 
Father contradicted himself, exposed the fallacies of his own 
arguments, and even, it is asserted, committed himself to 
several undoubted heresies. When the Commander stood 
up at mass, if the officiating priest caught that sceptical 
and searching eye, the service was inevitably ruined. Even 
the power of the Holy Church seemed to be lost, and the 
last hold upon the affections of the people and the good 
order of the settlement departed from San Carlos. 

As the long dry summer passed, the low hills that 
surrounded the white walls of the Presidio grew more and 
more to resemble in hue the leathern jacket of the Com- 
mander, and Nature herself seemed to have borrowed his 
dry, hard glare. The earth was cracked and seamed with 
drought ; a blight had fallen upon the orchards and vine- 
yards, and the rain, long delayed and ardently prayed for, 
came not. The sky was as tearless as the right eye of the 
Commander. Murmurs of discontent, insubordination, and 
plotting among the Indians reached his ear; he only set his 
teeth the more firmly, tightened the knot of his black silk 
handkerchief, and looked up his Toledo. 

The last day of the year 1798 found the Commander 
sitting, at the hour of evening prayer.s, alone in the guard- 
room. He no longer attended the services of the H0I7 
Church, but crept away at such times to some solitary spot, 


The Right Eye of the Commander, 287 

where he spent the interval in silent meditation. The fire- 
light played upon the low beams and rafters, but left the 
bowed figure of Salvatierra in darkness. Sitting thus, he 
felt a small hand touch his arm, and, looking down, saw 
the figure of Paquita, his little Indian pupil, at his knee. 
“Ah ! littlest of all,” said the Commander, with something of 
his old tenderness, lingering over the endearing diminutives 
of his native speech, — “ sweet one, what doest thou here ? 
Art thou not afraid of him whom every one shuns and fears?” 

“ No,” said the little Indian readily, “ not in the darL 
I hear your voice, — the old voice ; I feel your touch, — the 
old touch ; but I see not your eye, Senor Commandante. 
That only I fear, — and that, O Senor, O my father,” said 
the child, lifting her little arms towards his, — “ that I know 
is not thine own ! ” 

The Commander shuddered and turned away. Then, 
recovering himself, he kissed Paquita gravely on the fore- 
head and bade her retire. A few hours later, when silence 
had fallen upon the Presidio, he sought his own couch and 
slept peacefully. 

At about the middle watch of the night a dusky figure 
crept through the low embrasure of the Commander’s apart- 
ment Other figures were flitting through the parade- 
ground, which the Commander might have seen had he 
not slept so quietly. The intruder stepped noiselessly to 
the couch and listened to the sleeper’s deep-drawn inspira- 
tion. Something glittered in the firelight as the savage 
lifted his arm ; another moment and the sore perplexities 
of Hermenegildo Salvatierra would have been over, when 
suddenly the savage started and fell back in a paroxysm of 
terror. The Commander slept peacefully, but his right 
eye, widely opened, fixed and unaltered, glared coldly on 
the would-be assassin. The man fell to the earth in a fit, 
and the noise awoke the sleeper. 


288 The Right Eye of the Commander, 

To rise to his feet, grasp his sword, and deal blows thick 
and fast upon the mutinous savages who now thronged the 
room, was the work of a moment. Help opportunely 
arrived, and the undisciplined Indians were speedily driven 
beyond the walls ; but in the scuffle the Commander received 
a blow upon his right eye, and, lifting his hand to that 
mysterious organ, it was gone. Never again was it found, 
and never again, for bale or bliss, did it adorn the right 
orbit of the Commander. 

With it passed away the spell that had fallen upon San 
Carlos. The rain returned to invigorate the languid soil, 
harmony was restored between priest and soldier, the green 
grass presently waved over the sere hillsides, the children 
flocked again to the side of their martial preceptor, a 
Te Deum was sung in the Mission church, and pastoral 
content once more smiled upon the gentle valleys of San 
Carlos. And far southward crept the “ General Court ” 
with its master, Peleg Scudder, trafficking in beads and 
peltries with the Indians, and offering glass eyes, wooden 
legs, and other Boston notions to the chiefs. 


( 289 ) 


CJe legenD of DctiK’si Point 

On the northerly shore of San Francisco Bay, at a point 
where the Golden Gate broadens into the Pacific, stands a 
bluff promontory. It affords shelter from the prevailing 
winds to a semicircular bay on the east. Around this bay 
the hillside is bleak and barren, but there are traces of 
former habitation in a weather-beaten cabin and deserted 
corral. It is said that these were originally built by an 
enterprising squatter, who for some unaccountable reason 
abandoned them shortly after. The “Jumper” who suc- 
ceeded him disappeared one day quite as mysteriously. 
The third tenant, who seemed to be a man of sanguine, 
hopeful temperament, divided the property into building 
lots, staked off the hillside, and projected the map of a new 
metropolis. Failing, however, to convince the citizens of 
San Francisco that they had mistaken the site of their city, 
he presently fell into dissipation and despondency. He 
was frequently observed haunting the narrow strip of beach 
at low tide or perched upon the cliff at high water. In 
the latter position a sheep-tender one day found him, cold 
and pulseless, with a map of his property in his hand, and 
his face turned toward the distant sea. 

Perhaps these circumstances gave the locality its infeli- 
citous reputation. Vague rumours were bruited of a 
supernatural influence that had been exercised on the 
Venants. Strange stories were circulated of the origin of 

VOL. II. T 


290 The Legend of DeviVs Point, 

the diabolical title by which the promontory was knowa 
By some it was believed to be haunted by the spirit of one 
of Sir Francis Drake’s sailors who had deserted- his ship in 
consequence of stories told by the Indians of gold dis- 
coveries, but who had perished by starvation on the rocks. 
A vaquero who had once passed a night in the ruined 
cabin related how a strangely dressed and emaciated figure 
had knocked at the door at midnight and demanded food. 
Other story-tellers, of more historical accuracy, roundly 
asserted that Sir Francis himself had been little better than 
a pirate, and had chosen this spot to conceal quantities of 
ill-gotten booty taken from neutral bottoms, and had pro- 
tected his hiding-place by the orthodox means of hellish 
incantation and diabolic agencies. On moonlight nights 
a shadowy ship was sometimes seen standing off-and-on, or 
when fogs encompassed sea and shore, the noise of oars 
rising and falling in their rowlocks could be heard muffled 
and indistinctly during the night. Whatever foundation 
there might have been for these stories, it was certain that 
a more weird and desolate-looking spot could not have 
been selected for their theatre. High hills, verdureless and 
enfiladed with dark canadas, cast their gaunt shadows on 
the tide. During a greater portion of the day the wind, 
which blew furiously and incessantly, seemed possessed 
with a spirit of fierce disquiet and unrest. Toward night- 
fall the sea-fog crept with soft step through the portals of 
the Golden Gate, or stole in noiseless marches down the 
hillside, tenderly soothing the wind-buffeted face of the cliff, 
until sea and sky were hid together. At such times the 
populous city beyond and the nearer settlement seemed 
removed to an infinite distance. An immeasurable loneli- 
ness settled upon the cliff. The creaking of a windlass, or 
the monotonous chant of sailors on some unseen, outlying 
^ip, came faint and far, and full of mystic suggestion. 


The Legend of Devir s Point. 291 

About a year ago a well-to-do middle-aged broker of San 
Francisco found himself at nightfall the sole occupant of a 
plunger,” encompassed in a dense fog, and drifting toward 
the Golden Gate. This unexpected termination of an after- 
noon’s sail was partly attributable to his want of nautical 
skill, and partly to the effect of his usually sanguine nature 
Having given up the guidance of his boat to the wind and 
tide, he had trusted too implicitly for that reaction which 
his business experience assured him was certain to occur in 
all affairs, aquatic as well as terrestrial. “ The tide will 
turn soon,” said the broker confidently, “ or something will 
happen.” He had scarcely settled himself back again in 
the stern-sheets, before the bow of the plunger, obeying 
some mysterious impulse, veered slowly around and a dark 
object loomed up before him. A gentle eddy carried the 
boat farther in shore, until at last it was completely embayed 
under the lee of a rocky point now faintly discernible 
through the fog. He looked around him in the vain hope 
of recognising some familiar headland. The tops of the 
high hills which rose on either side were hidden in the fog. 
As the boat swung around, he succeeded in fastening a line 
to the rocks, and sat down again with a feeling of renewed 
confidence and security. 

It was very cold. The insidious fog penetrated his 
tightly buttoned coat, and set his teeth to chattering in 
spite of the aid he sometimes drew from a pocket-flask. 
His clothes were wet and the stern- sheets were covered 
with spray. The comforts of fire and shelter continually 
rose before his fancy as he gazed wistfully on the rocks. 
In sheer despair he finally drew the boat toward the most, 
accessible part of the cliff and essayed to ascend. This 
was less difficult than it appeared, and in a few moments 
he had gained the hill above. A dark object at a little 
distance attracted his attention, and on approaching, it 


292 The Legend of DeviCs Point, 

proved to be a deserted cabin. The story goes on to say, 
that having built a roaring fire of stakes pulled from the 
adjoining corral, with the aid of a flask of excellent brandy, 
he managed to pass the early part of the evening with com- 
parative comfort. 

There was no door in the cabin, and the windows w^ere 
simply square openings, which freely admitted the searching 
fog. But in spite of these discomforts, — being a man of 
cheerful, sanguine temperament, — he amused himself by 
poking the fire and watching the ruddy glow which the 
flames threw on the fog from the open door. In this 
innocent occupation a great weariness overcame him, and 
he fell asleep. 

He was awakened at midnight by a loud “ halloo,” which 
seemed to proceed directly from the sea. Thinking it 
might be the cry of some boatman lost in the fog, he walked 
to the edge of the cliff, but the thick veil that covered sea 
and land rendered all objects at the distance of a few feet 
indistinguishable. He heard, however, the regular strokes 
of oars rising and falling on the water. The halloo was 
repeated. He was clearing his throat to reply, when to his 
surprise an answer came apparently from the very cabin he 
had quitted. Hastily retracing his steps, he was the more 
amazed, on reaching the open door, to find a stranger 
warming himself by the fire. Stepping back far enough to 
conceal his owm person, he took a good look at the 
intruder. 

He was a man of about forty, with a cadaverous face. 
But the oddity of his dress attracted the broker’s attention 
more than his lugubrious physiognomy. His legs were 
hid in enormously wide trousers descending to his knee, 
where they met long boots of sealskin. A pea-jacket with 
exaggerated cuffs, almost as large as the breeches, covered 
his chest, and around his waist a monstrous belt, with a 


The Legend of Devil's Point, 293 

buckle like a dentist’s sign, supported two trumpet-mouthed 
pistols and a curved hanger. He wore a long queue, which 
depended half-way down his back. As the firelight fell on 
his ingenuous countenance the broker observed with some 
concern that this queue was formed entirely of a kind of 
tobacco known as pigtail or twist. Its effect, the broker 
remarked, was much heightened when in a moment of 
thoughtful abstraction the apparition bit off a portion of it 
and rolled it as a quid into the cavernous recesses of his 
jaws. 

Meanwhile, the nearer splash of oars indicated the ap- 
proach of the unseen boat. The broker had barely time 
to conceal himself behind the cabin before a number of 
uncouth-looking figures clambered up the hill towards the 
ruined rendezvous. They were dressed like the previous 
comer, who, as they passed through the open door exchanged 
greetings with each in antique phraseology, bestowing at 
the same time some familiar nickname. Flash-in-the-Pan, 
Spitter-of-Frogs, Malmsey Butt, Latheyard-Will, and Mark- 
the-Pinker, were the few sobriquets the broker remembered. 
Whether these titles were given to express some peculiarity 
of their owner he could not tell, for a silence followed as 
they slowly ranged themselves upon the floor of the cabin 
in a semicircle around their cadaverous host 

At length Malmsey Butt, a spherical-bodied man-of-waPs- 
man, with a rubicund nose, got on his legs somewhat 
unsteadily, and addressed himself to the company. They 
had met that evening, said the speaker, in accordance with 
9. time-honoured custom. This was simply to relieve that 
cne of their number who for fifty years had kept watch and 
ward over the locality where certain treasures had been 
buried. At this point the broker pricked up his ears. “ If 
10 be, camarados and brothers all,” he continued, “ye are 
ready to receive the report of our excellent and well- beloved 


294 Legend of D evil's Point 

brother, Master Slit-the-Weazand, touching his search foi 
this treasure, why, marry, to’t and begin.” 

A murmur of assent went around the circle as the 
speaker resumed his seat. Master Slit-the-Weazand slowly 
opened his lantern jaws and began. He had spent much 
of his time in determining the exact location of the treasure. 
He believed — nay, he could state positively — that its posi- 
tion was now settled. It was true he had done some trifling 
little business outside. Modesty forbade his mentioning 
the particulars, but he would simply state that of the three 
tenants who had occupied the cabin during the past ten 
years, none were now alive. [Applause, and cries of “ Go 
to ! thou wast always a tall fellow !” and the like.] 

Mark-the-Pinker next arose. Before proceeding to busi- 
ness he had a duty to perform in the sacred name of friend- 
ship. It ill became him to pass a eulogy upon the qualities 
of the speaker who had preceded him, for he had known 
him from “ boyhood’s hour.” Side by side they had wrought 
together in the Spanish war. For a neat hand with a toledo 
he challenged his equal, while how nobly and beautifully he 
had won his present title of Slit-the-Weazand all could 
testify. The speaker, with some show of emotion, asked to 
be pardoned if he dwelt too freely on passages of their early 
companionship ; he then detailed, with a fine touch of 
humour, his comrade’s peculiar manner of slitting the ears 
and lips of a refractory Jew who had been captured in one 
of their previous voyages. He would not weary the patience 
of his hearers, but would briefly propose that the report of 
Slit-the-Weazand be accepted, and that the thanks of the 
company be tendered him. 

A beaker of strong spirits was then rolled into the hut, 
and cans of grog were circulated freely from hand to hand. 
The health of Slit-the-Weazand was proposed in a neat 
speech by Mark-the-Pinker, and responded to by the former 


The Legend of Devil's Pomt, 295 

gentleman in a manner that drew tears to the eyes of all 
present. To the broker, in his concealment, this momentary 
diversion from the real business of the meeting occasioned 
much anxiety. As yet nothing had been said to indicate 
the exact locality of the treasure to which they had mysteri- 
ously alluded. Fear restrained him from open inquiry, and 
curiosity kept him from making good his escape during the 
orgie which followed. 

But his situation was beginning to become critical. Flash- 
,in-the-Pan, who seemed to have been a man of choleric 
humour, taking fire during some hotly-contested argument, 
discharged both his pistols at the breast of his opponent. 
The balls passed through on each side immediately below 
his arm-pits, making a clean hole, through which the hor- 
rified broker could see the firelight behind him. The 
wounded man, without betraying any concern, excited the 
laughter of the company by jocosely putting his arms akimbo, 
and inserting his thumbs into the orifices of the wounds 
as if they had been arm-holes. This having in a measure 
restored good-humour, the party joined hands and formed 
a circle preparatory to dancing. The dance was commenced 
by some monotonous stanzas hummed in a very high key 
by one of the party, the rest joining in the following chorus, 
which seemed to present a familiar sound to the broker’s ear ; 

** Her Majesty is very sicke, 

Lord Essex hath ye measles, 

Our Admiral hath licked ye French— 

Poppe ! saith ye weasel ! ” 

At the regular, recurrence of the last line, the party dis- 
charged their loaded pistois in all directions, rendering the 
position of the unhappy broker one of extreme peril and 
perplexity. 

When the tumult had partially subsided, Flash-in-the-Pan 
called the meeting to order, and most of the revellers 


296 The Legend of DeviVs Point 

returned to their places, Malmsey Butt, however, insisting 
upon another chorus, and singing at the top of his voice : 

** I am ycleped J. Keyset — I was born at Spring, hys Garden, 

My father toe make me ane clerke erst did essaye. 

But a fico for ye oflfis — I spurn ye losels offeire ; 

For I fain would be ane butcher by’r ladykin alwaye.** 

Flash-in-the-Pan drew a pistol from his belt, and bidding 
iome one gag Malmsey Butt with the stock of it, proceeded 
to read from a portentous roll of parchment that he held 
in his hand. It was a semi-legal document, clothed in 
the quaint phraseology of a bygone period. After a long 
preamble, asserting their loyalty as lieges of her most 
bountiful Majesty and Sovereign Lady the Queen, the 
document declared that they then and there took possession 
of the promontory, and all the treasure-trove therein con- 
tained, formerly buried by Her Majesty’s most faithful and 
devoted Admiral Sir Francis Drake, with the right to search, 
discover, and appropriate the same ; and for the purpose 
thereof they did then and there form a guild or corporation 
to so discover, search for, and disclose said treasures, and 
by virtue thereof they solemnly subscribed their names. 
But at this moment the reading of the parchment was 
arrested by an exclamation from the assembly, and the 
broker was seen frantically struggling at the door in the 
strong arms of Mark-the-Pinker. 

“ Let me go ! ” he cried, as he made a desperate attempt 
to reach the side of Master Flash-in-the-Pan. “Let me 
go ! I tell you, gentlemen, that document is not worth the 
parchment it is written on. The laws of the State, the 
customs of the country, the mining orcfinances, are all 
against it Don’t, by all that’s sacred, throw away such a 
capital investment through ignorance and informality. Let 
me go ! I assure you, gentlemen, professionally, that you 
have a big thing, — a remarkably big thing, and even if 1 


The L egend of DeviVs Point. 297 

iiin’t in it, I’m not going to see it fall through. Don’t, for 
God’s sake, gentlemen, I implore you, put your names to 
such a ridiculous paper. There isn’t a notary ” 

He ceased. The figures around him, which were begin- 
ning to grow fainter and more indistinct as he went on, 
swam before his eyes, flickered, reappeared again, and finally 
went out. He rubbed his eyes and gazed around him. 
The cabin was deserted. On the hearth the red embers of 
his fire were fading away in the bright beams of the morn- 
ing sun, that looked aslant through the open window. He 
ran out to the cliff. The sturdy sea-breeze fanned his fever- 
ish cheeks and tossed the white caps of waves that beat in 
pleasant music on the beach below. A stately merchant- 
man with snowy canvas was entering the Gate. The voices 
of sailors came cheerfully from a bark at anchor below the 
point. The muskets of the sentries gleamed brightly on 
Alcatraz, and the rolling of drums swelled on the breeze. 
Farther on, the hills of San Francisco, cottage-crowned and 
bordered with wharves and warehouses, met his longing 
eye. 

Such is the legend of Devil’s Point. Any objections to 
its reliability may be met with the statement that the broker 
who tells the story has since incorporated a company under 
the title of “ Flash-in-the-Pan Gold and Silver Treasure 
Mining Company,” and that its shares are already held at a 
stiff figure. A copy of the original document is said to be 
on record in the office of the company, and on any clear 
day the locality of the claim may be distinctly seen from the 
bills of San Francisca 


( 298 ) 


C6e atitienture of jpaDre Fkentio. 

A LEGEND OF SAN FRANCISCO. 

One pleasant New Year’s Eve, about forty years ago, Padre 
Vicentio was slowly picking his way across the sandhills 
from the Mission Dolores. As he climbed the crest of the 
ridge beside Mission Creek, his broad, shining face might 
have been easily mistaken for the beneficent image of the 
rising moon, so bland was its smile and so indefinite its 
features. For the Padre was a man of notable reputation 
and character; his ministration at the Mission of San Josd 
had been marked with cordiality and unction; he was 
adored by the simple-minded savages, and had succeeded 
in impressing his individuality so strongly upon them, that 
the very children were said to -have miraculously resembled 
him in feature. 

As the holy man reached the loneliest portion of the 
road, he naturally put spurs to his mule as if to quicken 
;hat decorous pace which the obedient animal had acquired 
through long experience of its master’s habits. The locality 
had an unfavourable reputation. Sailors — deserters from 
whaleships — had been seen lurking about the outskirts of 
the town, and low scrub oaks which everywhere beset the 
trail might have easily concealed some desperate runaway. 
Besides these material obstructions, the Devil, whose hostility 
to the Church was well known was said to sometimes haunt 
the vicinity in the likeness of a spectral whaler, who had 


The Adventure of Padre Vicentio. 299 

met his death in a drunken bout from a harpoon in the 
hands of a companion. The ghost of this unfortunate 
mariner was frequently observed sitting on the hill toward 
the dusk of evening, armed with his favourite weapon and 
a tub containing a coil of line, looking out for some belated 
traveller on whom to exercise his professional skill. It is 
related that the good Father Jos^ Maria of the Mission 
Dolores had been twice attacked by this phantom sports- 
man ; that once, on returning from San Francisco, and 
panting with exertion from climbing the hill, he was startled 
by a stentorian cry of “ There she blows ! ” quickly followed 
by a hurtling harpoon, which buried itself in the sand beside 
him ; that on another occasion he narrowly escaped destruc- 
tion, his serapa having been transfixed by the diabolical 
harpoon and dragged away in triumph. Popular opinion 
seems to have been divided as to the reason for the devil’s 
particular attention to Father Jos^, some asserting that the 
extreme piety of the Padre excited the Evil One’s animosity, 
and others that his adipose tendency simply rendered him, 
from a professional view-point, a profitable capture. 

Had Father Vicentio been inclined to scoff at this 
apparition as a heretical innovation, there was still the 
story of Concepcion, the Demon Vaquero, whose terrible 
riaia was fully as potent as the whaler’s harpoon. Con- 
cepcion, when in the flesh, had been a celebrated herder 
of cattle and wild horses, and was reported to have chased 
the Devil in the shape of a fleet pmto colt all the way from 
San Luis Obispo to San Francisco, vowing not to give up 
the chase until he had overtaken the disguised Arch- 
Enemy. This the Devil prevented by resuming his own 
shape, but kept the unfortunate vaquero to the fulfilment 
of his rash vow ; and Concepcion still scoured the coast 
on a phantom steed, beguiling the monotony of his eternal 
pursuit by lassoing travellers, dragging them at the heels 


300 The Adventure of Padre Vicentio, 

of his unbroken mustang until they were eventually picked 
up, half-strangled, by the roadside. The Padre listened 
attentively for the tramp of this terrible rider. But no 
footfall broke the stillness of the night ; even the hoofs of 
his own mule sank noiselessly in the shifting sand. Novf 
and then a rabbit bounded lightly by him, or a quail ran into 
the bushes. The melancholy call of plover from the adjoin- 
ing marshes of Mission Creek came to him so faintly and 
fitfully that it seemed almost a recollection of the past 
rather than a reality of the present. 

To add to his discomposure, one of those heavy sea-fogs 
peculiar to the locality began to drift across the hills and 
presently encompassed him. While endeavouring to evade 
its cold embraces. Padre Yicentio incautiously drove his 
heavy spurs into the flanks of his mule as that puzzled 
animal was hesitating on the brink of a steep declivity. 
Whether the poor beast was indignant at this novel outrage, 
or had been for some time reflecting on the evils of being 
priest-ridden, has not transpired ; enough that he suddenly 
threw up his heels, pitching the reverend man over his 
head, and, having accomplished this feat, coolly dropped 
on his knees and tumbled after his rider. 

Over and over went the Padre, closely followed by his 
faithless mule. Luckily the little hollow which received 
the pair was of sand, that yielded to the superincumbent 
weight, half burying them without further injury. For 
some moments the poor man lay motionless, vainly en- 
deavouring to collect his scattered senses. A hand irreve- 
rently laid upon his collar and a rough shake assisted to 
recall his consciousness. As the Padre staggered to his 
feet he found himself confronted by a stranger. 

Seen dimly through the fog, and under circumstances 
that to say the least were not prepossessing, the newcomer 
had an inexpressibly mysterious and brigand-like aspect 


The Adventure of Padre Vicentio, 301 

A long boat-cloak concealed his figure, and a slouched hat 
hid his features, permitting only his eyes to glisten in the 
depths. With a deep groan the Padre slipped from the 
stranger’s grasp and subsided into the soft sand again. 

“ Gad’s life ! ” said the stranger, pettishly, “ hast no 
more bones in thy fat carcase than a jellyfish ? Lend a 
hand, here ! Yo, heave ho ! ” and he dragged the Padre 
into an upright position. ‘‘Now, then, who and what art 
thou ? ” 

The Padre could not help thinking that the question 
might have more properly been asked by himself ; but with 
an odd mixture of dignity and trepidation he began enumer- 
ating his different titles, which were by no means brief, and 
would have been alone sufficient to strike awe in the bosom 
of an ordinary adversary. The stranger irreverently broke 
in upon his formal phrases, and assuring him that a priest 
was the very person he was looking for, coolly replaced 
the old man’s hat, which had tumbled off, and bade him 
accompany him at once on an errand of spiritual counsel 
to one who was even then lying in extremity. “ To think,” 
said the stranger, “that I should stumble upon the very 
man I was seeking ! Body of Bacchus ! but this is lucky 1 
Follow me quickly, for there is no time to lose.” 

Like most easy natures, the positive assertion of the 
stranger, and withal a certain authoritative air of command, 
overcame what slight objections the Padre might have 
feebly nurtured during this remarkable interview. The 
spiritual invitation was one, also, that he dared not refuse ; 
not only that, but it tended somewhat to remove the 
superstitious dread with which he had begun to regard the 
mysterious stranger. But, following at a respectful distance, 
tha Padre could not help observing with a thrill of horror 
that the stranger’s footsteps made no impression on the 
sand, and his figure seemed at times to olend and incor* 


302 The Adventure of Padre Vicentio, 

porate itself with the fog, until the holy man was obliged 
to wait for its reappearance. In one of these intervals of 
embarrassment he heard the ringing of the far-off Mission 
bell proclaiming the hour of midnight. Scarcely had the 
last stroke died away before the announcement was taken 
up and repeated by a multitude of bells of all sizes, and the 
air was filled with the sound of striking clocks and the 
pealing of steeple chimes. The old man uttered a cry ol 
alarm. The stranger sharply demanded the cause. “ The 
bells ! did you not hear them?” gasped Padre Vicentio. 
“ Tush ! tush ! ” answered the stranger, “ thy fall hath set 
triple bob-majors ringing in thine ears. Come on !” 

The Padre was only too glad to accept the explanation 
conveyed in this discourteous answer. But he was destined 
for another singular experience. When they had reached 
the summit of the eminence now known as Russian Hill, 
an exclamation again burst from the Padre. The stranger 
turned to his companion with an impatient gesture, but 
the Padre heeded him not. The view that burst upon his 
sight was such as might well have engrossed the attention 
of a more enthusiastic temperament. The fog had not 
yet reached the hill, and the long valleys and hillsides of 
the embarcadero below were glittering with the light of a 
populous city. “ Look ! ” said the Padre, stretching his 
hand over the spreading landscape. “ Look ! dost thou not 
see the stately squares and brilliantly lighted avenues of a 
mighty metropolis ? Dost thou not see, as it were, another 
firmament below?” 

“ Avast heaving, reverend man, and quit this folly,” said 
the stranger, dragging the bewildered Padre after him. 
“ Behold rather the stars knocked out of thy hollow noddle 
by the fall thou hast had. Prithee, get over thy visions ^nd 
rhapsodies, for the time is wearing apace.” 

The Padre humbly followed without another word. D® 


The Adventure of Pactre Vicentio. 303 

Rcending the hill toward the north, the stranger leading the 
way, in a few moments the Padre detected the wash of 
waves, and presently his feet struck the firmer sand of the 
beach. Here the stranger paused, and the Padre perceived 
a boat lying in readiness hard by. As he stepped into tlie 
stern-sheets, in obedience to the command of his com 
panion, he noticed that the rowers seemed to partake of the 
misty incorporeal texture of his companion, a similarity that 
became the more distressing when he perceived also that 
their oars in pulling together made no noise. The stranger, 
assuming the helm, guided the boat on quietly, while the fog, 
settling over the face of the water and closing around them, 
seemed to interpose a muffled wall between themselves and 
the rude jarring of the outer world. As they pushed further 
into this penetralia, the Padre listened anxiously for the 
sound of creaking blocks and the rattling of cordage, but 
no vibration broke the veiled stillness or disturbed the warm 
breath of the fleecy fog. Only one incident occurred to 
break the monotony of their mysterious journey. A one- 
eyed rower, who sat in front of the Padre, catching the 
devout Father’s eye, immediately grinned such a ghastly 
smile, and winked his remaining eye with such diabolical 
intensity of meaning, that the Padre was constrained to utter 
a pious ejaculation, which had the disastrous effect of caus- 
ing the marine Codes to “ catch a crab,” throwing his heels 
in the air and his head into the bottom of the boat. But 
even this accident did not disturb the gravity of the rest of 
the ghastly boat’s crew. 

When, as it seemed to the Padre, ten minutes had elapsed, 
the outline of a large ship loomed up directly across their 
bow. Before he could utter the cry of warning that rose to 
his lips, or brace himself against the expected shock, the 
boat passed gently and noiselessly through the sides of the 
vessel, and the holy man found himself standing on the 


J 04 The Adventure of Padre Vicentio. 

berth-deck of what seemed to be an ancient caravel. The 
boat and boat’s crew had vanished. Only his mysterious 
friend, the stranger, remained. By the light of a swinging 
lamp the Padre beheld him standing beside a hammock, 
whereon, apparently, lay the dying man to whom he had 
been so mysteriously summoned. As the Padre, in obedi- 
ence to a sign from his companion, stepped to the side of 
the sufferer, he feebly opened his eyes and thus addressed 
him : — 

“Thou seest before thee, reverend Father, a helpless 
mortal, struggling not only with the last agonies of the flesh, 
but beaten down and tossed with sore anguish of the spirit. 
It matters little when or how I became what thou now seest 
me. Enough that my life has been ungodly and sinful, and 
that my only hope of absolution lies in my imparting to thee 
a secret which is of vast importance to the Holy Church, 
and affects greatly her power, wealth, and dominion on these 
shores. But the terms of this secret and the conditions of 
my absolution are peculiar. I have but five minutes to live. 
In that time I must receive the extreme unction of the 
Church.” 

“ And thy secret ? ” said the holy Father. 

“Shall be told afterwards,” answered the dying man.- 
“ Come, my time is short Shrive me quickly.” 

The Padre hesitated. “ Couldst thou not tell this secret 
first?” 

“ Impossible ! ” said the dying man, with what seemed 
to the Padre a momentary gleam of triumph. Then, as his 
breath grew feebler, he called impatiently, “ Shrive me j 
shrive me ! ” 

“ Let me know at least what this secret concerns ? ” sug* 
gested the Padre insinuatingly. 

“ Shrive me first,” said the dying man. 

But the priest still hesitated, parleying with the sufferei 


The Adventure of Padre Vicentio. 305 

until the ship’s bell struck, when, with a triumphant mock- 
ing laugh from the stranger, the vessel suddenly fell to 
pieces, amid the rushing of waters which at once involved 
the dying man, the priest, and the mysterious stranger. 

The Padre did not recover his consciousness until high 
noon the next day, when he found himself lying in a little 
hollow between the Mission Hills, and his faithful mule a 
few paces from him, cropping the sparse herbage. The 
Padre made the best of his way home, but wisely abstained 
from narrating the facts mentioned above until after the 
discovery of gold, when the whole of this veracious incident 
was related, with the assertion of the Padre that the secret 
which was thus mysteriously snatched from his possession 
was nothing more than the discovery of gold, years since, 
by the runaway sailors from the expedition of Sir Francis 
Drake. 


VOL. n. 


( 3o6 ) 


Cfie DetifI anil tl)c 'Brofeer. 

A MEDIAEVAL LEGEND. 

The church clocks in San Francisco were striking ten. 
The Devil, who had been flying over the city that evening, 
just then alighted on the roof of a church near the corner 
of Bush and Montgomery Streets. It will be perceived 
that the popular belief that the Devil avoids holy edifices, 
and vanishes at the sound of a Credo or Paternofter^ is long 
since exploded. Indeed, modern scepticism asserts that he 
is not averse to these orthodox discourses, which particularly 
bear reference to himself, and in a measure recognise his 
power and importance. 

I am inclined to think, however, that his choice of a 
resting-place was a good deal influenced by its contiguity 
to a populous thoroughfare. When he was comfortably 
seated, he began pulling out the joints of a small rod which 
he held in his hand, and which presently proved to be an 
extraordinary fishing-pole, with a telescopic adjustment that 
permitted its protraction to a marvellous extent. Affixing 
a line thereto, he selected a fly of a particular pattern from 
a small box which he carried with him, and, making a 
skilful cast, threw his line into the very centre of that 
living stream which ebbed and flowed through Montgomery 
Street 

Either the people were very virtuous that evening or the 
bait was not a taking one. In vain the Devil whipped the 


The Devil and the Broker, 307 

stream at an eddy in front of the Occidental, or trolled his 
line into the shadows of the Cosmopolitan; five minutes 
passed without even a nibble. “ Dear me ! ” quoth the 
Devil, “ that’s very singular ; one of my most popular flies, 
too I Why, they’d have risen by shoals in Broadway or 
Beacon Street for that. Well, here goes another.” And 
fitting a new fly from his well-filled box, he gracefully recast 
his line. 

For a few moments there was every prospect of sport 
The line was continually bobbing and the nibbles were dis- 
tinct and gratifying. Once or twice the bait was apparently 
gorged and carried off to the upper storeys of the hotels 
to be digested at leisure. At such times the professional 
manner in which the Devil played out his line would have 
thrilled the heart of Izaak Walton. But his efforts were 
unsuccessful ; the bait was invariably carried off without 
hooking the victim, and the Devil finally lost his temper. 
“ I’ve heard of these San Franciscans before,” he muttered ; 
“ wait till I get hold of one, that’s all ! ” he added male- 
volently, as he rebaited his hook. A sharp tug and a 
wriggle followed his next trial, and finally, with considerable 
effort, he landed a portly two-hundred-pound broker upon 
the church roof. 

As the victim lay there gasping, it was evident that the 
Devil was in no hurry to remove the hook from his gills ; 
nor did he exhibit in this delicate operation that courtesy 
of manner and graceful manipulation which usually dis- 
tinguished him. 

“Come,” he said gruffly, as he grasped the broker by 
the waistband, “quit that whining and grunting. Don’t 
flatter yourself that you’re a prize either. I was certain to 
have had you. It was only a question of time.” 

“ It is not that, my lord, which troubles me,” whined the 
unfortunate wretch, as he painfully wriggled his head, “ but 


3 o 8 The Devil and the Broker, 

that I should have been fooled by such a paltry bait. What 
will they say of me down there? To have let ‘bigger 
things' go by, and to be taken in by this cheap trick,” 
he added, as he groaned and glanced at the fly which the 
Devil was carefully rearranging, “ is what, — pardon me, my 
lord, — is what gets me ! ” 

“ Yes,” said the Devil philosophically, “ I never caught 
anybody yet who didn’t say that ; but tell me, ain’t you 
getting somewhat fastidious down there? Here is one 
of my most popular flies, the greenback,” he continued, 
exhibiting an emerald-looking insect, which he drew fronk 
his box. “ This, so generally considered excellent in elec- 
tion season, has not even been nibbled at. Perhaps your 
sagacity, which, in spite of this unfortunate contretemps, no 
one can doubt,” added the Devil, with a graceful return to 
his usual courtesy, “ may explain the reason or suggest ? 
substitute.” 

The broker glanced at the contents of the box with a 
supercilious smile. “Too old-fashioned, my lord, — long 
ago played out. Yet,” he added, with a gleam of interest, 
“ for a consideration I might offer something — ahem ! — 
that would make a taking substitute for these trifles. Give 
me,” he continued, in a brisk, business-like way, “ a slight 
percentage and a bonus down, and I’m your maa” 

“Name your terms,” said the Devil earnestly. 

“My liberty and a percentage on all you take, and the 
thing’s done.” 

The Devil caressed his tail thoughtfully for a few 
moments. He was certain of the broker any way, and the 
risk was slight “ Done ! ” he said. 

“Stay a moment,” said the artful broker. “There are 
certain contingencies. Give me your fishing-rod and let 
me apply the bait myself. It requires a skilful hand, my 
Wd : even your well-known experience might fail Leave 


The Devil and the Broker, 309 

me alone for half an hour, and if you have reason to com- 
plain of my success I will forfeit my deposit, — I mean my 
liberty.” 

The Devil acceded to his request, bowed, and withdrew. 
Alighting gracefully in Montgomery Street, he dropped into 
Meade & Co.’s clothing store, where, having completely 
equipped himself d, la mode^ he sallied forth intent on his 
personal enjoyment. Determining to sink his professional 
character, he mingled with the current of human life, and 
enjoyed, with that immense capacity for excitement peculiar 
to his nature, the whirl, bustle, and feverishness of the 
people, as a purely aesthetic gratification unalloyed by the 
cares of business. What he did that evening does not 
belong to our story. We return to the broker, whom we left 
on the roof. 

When he made sure that the Devil had retired, he care- 
fully drew from his pocket-book a slip of paper and affixed 
it on the hook. The line had scarcely reached the current 
before he felt a bite. The hook was swallowed. To bring 
up his victim rapidly, disengage him from the hook and 
reset his line, was the work of a moment. Another bite 
and the same result. Another, and another. In a very 
few minutes the roof was covered with his panting spoil. 
The broker could himself distinguish that many of them 
were personal friends ; nay, some of them were familiar 
frequenters of the building on which they were now miser- 
ably stranded. That the broker felt a certain satisfaction 
in being instrumental in thus misleading his fellow-brokers 
no one acquainted with human nature will for a moment 
doubt But a stronger pull on his line caused him to put 
forth all his strength and skill. The magic pole bent like a 
coach-whip. The broker held firm, assisted by the battle- 
ments of the church. Again and again it was almost 
wrested from his hand, and again and again he slowly 


310 


The Devil and the Broker, 


reeled in a portion of the tightening line. At last, with one 
mighty effort, he lifted to the level of the roof a struggling 
object. A howl like Pandemonium rang through the air 
as the broker successfully landed at his feet — the Devil 
himself ! 

The two glared fiercely at each other. The broker, per- 
haps mindful of his former treatment, evinced no haste to 
remove the hook from his antagonist’s jaw. When it was 
finally accomplished, he asked quietly if the Devil was 
satisfied. That gentleman seemed absorbed in the con- 
templation of the bait which he had just taken from his 
mouth. “ I am,” he said finally, “ and forgive you j but 
what do you call this ? ” 

“ Bend low,” replied the broker, as he buttoned up his 
coat ready to depart The Devil inclined his ear. “ I call 
it Wild Cat I” 


( 3H > 


C5e of !LanD ; 

OR, 

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF PRINCE BADFELLAH AND 
PRINCE BULLEBOYE, 

In the second year of the reign of the renowned Caliph Lo 
there dwelt in Silver Land, adjoining his territory, a 
certain terrible Ogress. She lived in the bowels of a dismal 
mountain, where she was in the habit of confining such 
unfortunate travellers as ventured within her domain. The 
country for miles around was sterile and barren. In some 
places it was covered with a white powder, which was called 
in the language of the country Al Ka Li, and was supposed 
to be the pulverised bones of those who had perished 
miserably in her service. 

In spite of this, every year great numbers of young men 
devoted themselves to the service of the Ogress, hoping to 
become her godsons, and to enjoy the good fortune which 
belonged to that privileged class. For these godsons had 
no work to perform, neither at the mountain nor elsewhere, 
but roamed about the world with credentials of their 
relationship in their pockets, which they called stokh, 
which was stamped with the stamp and sealed with the 
seal of the Ogress, and which enabled them at the end of 
each moon to draw large quantities of gold and silver from 
her treasury. And the wisest and most favoured of those 
godsons were the Princes Badfellah and Bulleboye. 


3 1 2 The Ogress of Silver Land, 

They knew all the secrets of the Ogress, and how to wheedle 
and coax her. They were also the favourites of S^jopah 
Intendent, who was her Lord High Chamberlain and 
Prime Minister, and who dwelt in Silver Land. 

One day, Soopah Intendent said to his servants, “What 
is that which travels the most surely, the most secretly, 
and the most swiftly ? ” 

And they all answered as one man, “Lightning, my 
lord, travels the most surely, the most swiftly, and the 
most secretly ! ” 

Then said Soopah Intendent, “Let Lightning carry 
this message secretly, swiftly, and surely to my beloved 
friends the Princes Badfellah and Bulleboye, and tell 
them that their godmother is dying, and bid them seek 
some other godmother or sell their stokh ere it becomes 
hadjee^ — worthless. ” 

“Bekhesm ! On our heads be it !” answered the servants; 
and they ran to Lightning with the message, who flew with 
it to the City by the Sea, and delivered it, even at that 
moment, into the hands of the Princes Badfellah and 
Bulleboye. 

Now the Prince Badfellah was a wicked young man ; 
and when he had received this message he tore his beard 
and rent his garment and reviled his godmother and his 
friend Soopah Intendent. But presently he arose, and 
dressed himself in his finest stuffs, and went forth into the 
bazaars and among the merchants, capering and dancing as 
he walked, and crying in a loud voice, “ O happy day ! O 
day worthy to be marked with a white stone ! ” 

This he said cunningly, thinking the merchants and men 
of the bazaars would gather about him, which they presently 
did, and began to question him : “ What news, O most 
worthy and serene Highness ? Tell us, that we may make 
l&erry too I ” 


The Ogress of Silver Land. 313 

Then replied the cunning prince, “Good news, O my 
brothers, for I have heard this day that my godmother in 
Silver Land is well.” The merchants, who were not aware 
of the substance of the real message, envied him greatly, 
and said one to another, “ Surely our brother the Prince 
Badfellah is favoured by Allah above all men ; ” and they 
were about to retire, when the prince checked them, saying, 
“ Tarry for a moment Here are my credentials or stokh. 
The same I will sell you for fifty thousand sequins, for I 
have to give a feast to-day, and need much gold. Who 
will give fifty thousand ? ” And he again fell to capering 
and dancing. But this time the merchants drew a little 
apart, and some of the oldest and wisest said, “ What dirt 
is this which the prince would have us swallow? If his 
godmother were well, why should he sell his stokh ? 
Bismillah ! The olives are old and the jar is broken ! 
When Prince Badfellah perceived them whispering, his 
countenance fell, and his knees smote against each other 
through fear; but, dissembling again, he said, “Well, so 
be it ! Lo ! I have much more than shall abide with me, 
for my days are many and my wants are few. Say forty 
thousand sequins for my stokh and let me depart, in 
Allah’s name. Who will give forty thousand sequins to 
become the godson of such a healthy mother ? ” And he 
again fell to capering and dancing, but not a? gaily as 
before, for his heart was troubled. The merchants, how- 
ever, only moved farther away. “Thirty thousand sequins,” 
cried Prince Badfellah ; but even as he spoke they fled 
before his face, crying, “ His godmother is dead. Lo ! the 
jackals are defiling her grave. Mashallah ! he has no god- 
mother.” And they sought out Panik, the swift-footed 
messenger, and bade him shout through the bazaars that 
the godmother of Prince Badfe^-lah was dead. When he 
heard this, the prince fell upon his face, and rent his 


314 Ogress of Silver Land, 

garments, and covered himself with the dnst of the market- 
place. As he was sitting thus, a porter passed him with 
jars of wine on his shoulders, and the prince begged him 
to give him a jar, for he was exceeding thirsty and faint. 
But the porter said, “ What will my lord give me first ? 
And the prince, in very bitterness of spirit, said, “Take 
this,” and handed him his stokh, and so exchanged it for a 
jar of wine. 

Now the Prince Bulleboye was of a different disposition. 
When he received the message of Soopah Intendent he 
bowed his head, and said, “It is the will of God.” Then 
he rose, and without speaking a word entered the gates of 
his palace. But his wife, the peerless Maree Jahann, per- 
ceiving the gravity of his countenance, said, “ Why is my 
lord cast down and silent ? Why are those rare and price- 
less pearls, his words, shut up so tightly between those gor- 
geous oyster-shells, his lips ? ” But to this he made no 
reply. Thinking further to divert him, she brought her lute 
into the chamber and stood before him, and sang the song 
and danced the dance of Ben Kotton, which is called 
Ibrahim’s Daughter, but she could not lift the veil of 
sadness from his brow. 

When she had ceased, the Prince Bulleboye arose and 
said, “Allah is great, and what am I, his servant, but the 
dust of the earth ! Lo ! this day has my godmother sick- 
ened unto death, and my stokh become as a withered 
palm-leaf. Call hither my servants and camel-drivers, and 
the merchants that have furnished me with stuffs, and the 
beggars who have feasted at my table, and bid them take 
all that is here, for it is mine no longer ! ” With these 
words he buried his face in his mantle and wept aloud. 

But Maree Jahann, his wife, plucked him by the sleeves 
“Prithee, my lord,” said she, “ bethink thee of the Brokah 
or scrivener who besought thee but yesterday to share thy 


The Ogress of Silver Land, 315 

BTOKH with him and gave thee his bond for fifty thousand 
sequins.” But the noble Prince Bulleboye, raising his 
head, said, “ Shall I sell to him for fifty thousand sequins 
that which I know is not worth a Soo Markee? For is 
not all the Brokah’s wealth, even his wife and children, 
pledged on that bond ? Shall I ruin him to save myself? 
Allah forbid ! Rather let me eat the salt fish of honest 
penury than the kabobs of dishonourable affluence ; rather 
let me wallow in the mire of virtuous oblivion than repose 
on the divan of luxurious wickedness.” 

When the prince had given utterance to this beautiful 
and edifying sentiment, a strain of gentle music was heard, 
and the rear wall of the apartment, which had been ingenb 
ously constructed like a flat, opened and discovered the 
Ogress of Silver Land in the glare of blue fire, seated on 
a triumphal car attached to two ropes which were connected 
with the flies, in the very act of blessing the unconscious 
prince. When the walls closed again without attracting his 
attention. Prince Bulleboye arose, dressed himself in his 
coarsest and cheapest stuffs, and sprinkled ashes on his 
head, and in this guise, having embraced his wife, went 
forth into the bazaars. In this it will be perceived how 
differently the good Prince Bulleboye acted from the 
wicked Prince Badfellah, who put on his gayest garments 
to simulate and deceive. 

Now when Prince Bulleboye entered the chief bazaar, 
where the merchants of the city were gathered in council, 
he stood up in his accustomed place, and all that were there 
held their breath, for the noble Prince Bulleboye was 
much respected. “Let the Brokah whose bond I hold 
for fifty thousand sequins stand forth ! ” said the prince. 
And the Brokah stood forth from among the merchants. 
Then said the prince, “Here is thy bond for fifty thousand 
•equins, for which I was to deliver unto thee one half of 


310 1 he Ogress vf Silver Land, 

tny STOKH. Know, then, O my brother, — and thou, too, 
O Aga of the Brokahs, — that this my stokh which I 
pledged to thee is worthless. For my godmother, the 
Ogress of Silver Land, is dying. Thus do I release thee 
from thy bond, and from the poverty which might over- 
take thee, as it has even me, thy brother, the Prince Bulle- 
BOYE.” And with that the noble Prince Bulleboye tore 
the bond of the Brokah into pieces and scattered it to the 
four winds. 

Now when the prince tore up the bond there was a great 
commotion, and some said, “ Surely the Prince Bulleboye 
is drunken with wine ; ” and others, “ He is possessed of 
an evil spirit ; ” and his friends expostulated with him, say- 
ing, “ What thou hast done is not the custom of the bazaars, 
— behold, it is not Biz ! ” But to all the prince answered 
gravely, “It is right ; on my own head be it ! ” 

But the oldest and wisest of the merchants, they who had 
talked with Prince Badfellah the same morning, whispered 
together, and gathered round the Brokah whose bond the 
Prince Bulleboye had torn up. “ Hark ye,” said they, 
“ our brother the Prince Bulleboye is cunning as a jackal 
What bosh is this about ruining himself to save thee? 
Such a thing was never heard before in the bazaars. It is 
a trick, O thou mooncalf of a Brokah ! Dost thou not see 
that he has heard good news from his godmother, the same 
that was even now told us by the Prince Badfellah, his 
confederate, and that he would destroy thy bond for fifty 
thousand sequins because his stokh is worth a hundred 
thousand ! Be not deceived, O too credulous Brokah 1 
for this that our brother the prince doeth is not in the 
name of Allah, but of Biz, the only god known in the 
bazaars of the city.” 

When the foolish Brokah heard these things he cried, 
“Justice, O Aga of the Brokahs, — justice and the fulfil* 


The Ogress of Silver Land. 317 

ment of my bond ! Let the prince deliver unto me the 
STOKH. Here are my fifty thousand sequins.” But the 
prince said, “ Have 1 not told thee that my godmother is 
dying, and that my stokh is valueless?” At this the Brokah 
only clamoured the more for justice and the fulfilment of 
his bond. Then the Aga of the Brokahs said, “Since 
the bond is aestroyed, behold thou hast no claim. Go thy 
ways!” But the Brokah again cried, “Justice, my lord 
Aga 1 Behold, I offer the prince seventy thousand sequins 
for his STOKH 1 ” But the prince said, “ It is not worth one 
sequin ! ” Then the Aga said, “ Bismillah ! I cannot under- 
stand this. Whether thy godmother be dead, or dying, or 
immortal, does not seem to signify. Therefore, O prince, 
by the laws of Biz and of Allah, thou art released. Give 
the Brokah thy stokh for seventy thousand sequins, and 
bid him depart in peace. On his own head be it I ” When 
the prince heard this command, he handed the stokh to 
the Brokah, who counted out to him seventy thousand 
sequins. But the heart of the virtuous prince did not 
rejoice, nor did the Brokah when he found his stokh was 
valueless ; but the merchants lifted their hands in wonder 
at the sagacity and wisdom of the famous Prince Bulleeoye, 
For none would believe that it was the law of Allah that 
the prince followed, and not the rules of Biz. 


{ 3>8 ) 


CJe €{)ri3tmas (Fift tibat Came to 
Eupert. 

A STORY FOR LITTLE SOLDIERS. 

It was the Christmas season in California — a season of 
falling rain and springing grasses. There were intervals 
when, through driving clouds and flying scud, the sun 
visited the haggard hills with a miracle, and death and 
resurrection were as one, and out of the very throes of 
decay a joyous life struggled outward and upward. Even 
the storms that swept down the dead leaves nurtured the 
tender buds that took their places. There were no episodes 
of snowy silence; over the quickening fields the farmer’s 
ploughshare hard followed the furrows left by the latest 
rains. Perhaps it was for this reason that the Christmas 
evergreens which decorated the drawing-room took upon 
themselves a foreign aspect, and offered a weird contrast 
to the roses, seen dimly through the windows, as the south- 
west wind beat their soft faces against the panes. 

“ Now,” said the Doctor, drawing his chair closer to the 
fire, and looking mildly but firmly at the semicircle of 
flaxen heads around him, “ I want it distinctly understood 
before I begin my story, that I am not to be interrupted 
by any ridiculous questions. At the first one 1 shall stop. 
At the second, I shall feel it my duty to administer a dose 
of castor-oil all round. The boy that moves his legs oi 


3^9 


Rupert's Christmas Gift, 

Rrms will be understood to invite amputation. I have 
brought my instruments with me, and never allow pleasure 
to interfere with my business. Do you promise ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said six small voices simultaneously. The 
volley was, however, followed by half-a-dozen dropping 
questions. 

Silence ! Bob, put your feet down, and stop rattling 
that sword. Flora shall sit by my side, like a little lady, 
and be an example to the rest. Fung Tang shall stay, too, 
if he likes. Now, turn down the gas a little ; there, that 
will do — ^just enough to make the fire look brighter, and to 
show off the Christmas candles. Silence, everybody ! The 
boy who cracks an almond, or breathes too loud over his 
raisins, will be put out of the room.” 

There was a profound silence. Bob laid his sword 
tenderly aside and nursed his leg thoughtfully. Flora, 
after coquettishly adjusting the pockets of her little apron, 
put her arm upon the Doctor’s shoulder, and permitted 
herself to be drawn beside him. Fung Tang, the little 
heathen page, who was permitted, on this rare occasion, 
to share the Christmas revels in the drawing-room, surveyed 
the group with a smile that was at once sweet and philo- 
sophical. The light ticking of a French clock on the 
mantel, supported by a young shepherdess of bronze com- 
plexion and great symmetry of limb, was the only sound 
that disturbed the Christmas-like peace of the apartment — 
a peace which held the odours of evergreens, new toys, 
cedar boxes, glue, and varnish in a harmonious combination 
'hat passed all understanding. 

“ About four years ago at this time,” began the Doctor, 
I attended a course of lectures in a certain city. One of 
the professors, who was a sociable, kindly man — though 
somewhat practical and hard-headed — invited me to his 
house on Christmas-night. I was very glad to go, as I was 


320 Rupert's Christmas Gift, 

anxious to see one of his sons, who, though only twelve 
years old, was said to be very clever. I dare not tell you 
how many Latin verses this little fellow could recite, or 
how many English ones he had composed. In the first 
place, you’d want me to repeat them ; secondly, I’m not a 
judge of poetry — Latin or English. But there were judges 
who said they were wonderful for a boy, and everybody 
predicted a splendid future for him. Everybody but his 
father. He shook his head doubtingly whenever it was 
mentioned, for, as I have told you, he was a practical, 
matter-of-fact man. 

“ There^was a pleasant party at the Professor’s that night. 
All the children of the neighbourhood were there, and 
among them the Professor’s clever son, Rupert, as they 
called him — a thin little chap, about as tall as Bobby there, 
and fair and delicate as Flora by my side. His health was 
feeble, his father said ; he seldom ran about and played 
with other boys — preferring to stay at home and brood 
over his books, and compose what he called his verses. 

“Well, we had a Christmas-tree just like this, and we 
had been laughing and talking, calling the names of the 
children who had presents on the tree, and everybody was 
very happy and joyous, when one of the children suddenly 
uttered a cry of mingled surprise and hilarity, and said, 
‘Here’s something for Rupert — and what do you think 
it is ? ’ 

“ We all guessed. ‘ A desk ; ^ ‘ A copy of Milton ; ' ‘ A 
gold pen ; ’ ‘ A rhyming dictionary.* ‘ No ? what then ? * 

“ ‘ A drum I ’ 

•* ‘ A what ? * asked everybody. 

“ ‘ A drum ! with Rupert’s name on it.* 

“ Sure enough there it was. A good-sized, bright, new, 
brass-bound drum, with a slip of paper on it, with the 
inscription, ‘For Rupert.* 


Rupert's Christmas Gift, 321 

“ Of course we all laughed, and thought it a good joke. 
'You see you’re to make a noise in the world, Rupert!* 
laid one. * Here’s parchment for the poet,* said another. 
‘Rupert’s last work in sheepskin covers,’ said a third. 

‘ Give us a classical tune, Rupert,’ said a fourth, and so on. 
But Rupert seemed too mortified to speak ; he changed 
colour, bit his lips, and finally burst into a passionate fit of 
crying and left the room. Then those who had joked him 
felt ashamed, and everybody began to ask who had put the 
drum there. But no one knew, or, if they did, the unex- 
pected sympathy awakened for the sensitive boy kept them 
silent. Even the servants were called up and questioned, 
but no one could give any idea where it came from. And 
what was still more singular, everybody declared that up 
to the moment it was produced, no one had seen it hang- 
ing on the tree. What do I think ? Well, I have my own 
opinion. But no questions ! Enough for you to know that 
Rupert did not come downstairs again that night, and the 
party soon after broke up. 

“ I had almost forgotten those things, for the War of the 
Rebellion broke out the next spring, and I was appointed 
surgeon in one of the new regiments, and was on my way 
to the seat of war. But I had to pass through the city 
where the Professor lived, and there 1 met him.* My first 
question was about Rupert. The Professor shook his 
head sadly. ‘ He’s not so well,’ he said ; * he has been 
declining since last Christmas when you saw him. A very 
strange case,’ he added, giving it a long Latin name, ‘a 
very singular case. But go and see him yourself,’ he urged ; 
‘ it may distract his mind and do him good.’ 

“ I went accordingly to the Professor’s house, and found 
Rupert lying on a sofa propped up with pillows. Around 
him were scattered his books, and, what seemed in singular 
contrast, that drum I told you abouC was hanging on a nail 

VOL. II. X 


322 Rupert's Christmas Gift 

just above his head. His face was thin and wasted ; there 
was a red spot on either cheek, and his eyes were very 
bright and widely opened. He was glad to see me, and 
when I told him where I was going, he asked a thousand 
questions about the war. I thought I had thoroughly 
diverted his mind from its sick and languid fancies, when 
he suddenly grasped my hand and drew me towards him. 

‘ Doctor,’ said he, in a low whisper, ‘ you won’t laugh at 
me if I tell you something ? ’ 

‘“No, certainly not,’ I said. 

“ * You remember that drum ? ’ he said, pointing to the 
glittering toy that hung against the wall. ‘You know, too, 
how it came to me. A few weeks after Christmas, I was 
lying half-asleep here, and the drum was hanging on the 
wall, when suddenly I heard it beaten; at first low and 
slowly, then faster and louder, until its rolling filled the 
house. In the middle of the night I heard it again. I did 
not dare to tell anybody about it, but I have heard it every 
night ever since.’ 

“ He paused and looked anxiously in my face. ‘ Some- 
times,’ he continued, ‘ it is played softly, sometimes loudly, 
but always quickening to a long roll, so loud and alarming, 
that I have looked to see people coming into my room to 
ask what was the matter. But I think. Doctor — I think,’ 
he repeated slowly, looking up with painful interest into my 
face, ‘ that no one hears it but myself.’ 

“ I thought so, too, but I asked him if he had heard it at 
any other time. 

‘“Once or twice in the daytime,’ he replied, ‘when I 
have been reading or writing; then very loudly, as though 
it were angry, and tried in that way to attract my attention 
away from my books.’ 

“ I looked into his face and placed my hand upon his 
pulse. His eyes were very bright and his pulse a little 


Ruperfs Christmas Gift, 323 

flurried and quick. I then tried to explain to him that he 
was very weak, and that his senses were very acute, as most 
weak people’s are ; and how that when he read, or grew 
interested and excited, or when he was tired at night, the 
throbbing of a big artery made the beating sound he heard. 
He listened to me with a sad smile of unbelief, but thanked 
me, and in a little w^hile I went away. But as I was going 
downstairs I met the Professor. I gave him my opinion of 
the case — well, no matter what it was. 

“ ‘ He wants fresh air and exercise,’ said the Professor, 
‘and some practical experience of life, sir.’ The Professor 
was not a bad man, but he was a little worried and impa- 
tient, and thought — as clever people are apt to think — that 
things which he didn’t understand were either silly or 
improper. 

“ I left the city that very day, and in the excitement of 
battlefields and hospitals I forgot all about little Rupert, 
nor did I hear of him again, until one day, meeting an old 
classmate in the army, who had known the Professor, he 
told me that Rupert had become quite insane, and that in 
one of his paroxysms he had escaped from the house, and 
as he had never been found, it was feared that he had fallen 
into the river and was drowned. I was terribly shocked for 
the moment, as you may imagine; but, dear me, I was 
living just then among scenes as terrible and shocking, and 
I had little time to spare to mourn over poor Rupert. 

“ It was not long after receiving this intelligence that we 
had a terrible battle, in which a portion of our army was 
slaughtered. I was detached from my brigade to ride over 
to the battlefield and assist the surgeons of the beaten 
division, who had more on their hands than they couM 
attend to. When I reached the barn that served for a tem- 
porary hospital, I went at once to work. Ah ! Bob,” said 
the Doctor thoughtfully, taking the bright sword from the 


324 Rupert's Christmas Gift, 

hands of the half-frightened Bob, and holding it gravely 
before him, “ these pretty playthings are symbols of cruel, 
ugly realities.” 

“ I turned to a tall, stout Vermonter,” he continued, very 
slowly, tracing a pattern on the rug with the point of the 
scabbard, “ who was badly wounded in both thighs, but he 
held up his hands and begged me to help others first who 
needed it more than he. I did not at first heed his request, 
for this kind of unselfishness was very common in the army ; 
but he went on, ‘ For God’s sake. Doctor, leave me here ; 
there is a drummer-boy of our regiment — a mere child — 
dying, if he isn’t dead now. Go and see him first. He 
lies over there. He saved more than one life. He was at 
his post in the panic of this morning, and saved the honour 
of the regiment.’ I was so much more impressed by the 
man’s manner than by the substance of his speech, which 
was, however, corroborated by the other poor fellows 
stretched around me, that I passed over to where the 
drummer lay, with his drum beside him. I gave one 
glance at his face — and — yes. Bob — yes, my children — it 
was Rupert. 

“ Well ! well ! it needed not the chalked cross which my 
brother surgeons had left upon the rough board whereon he 
lay to show how urgent was the relief he sought ; it needed 
not the prophetic w'ords of the Vermonter, nor the damp 
that mingled with the brown curls that clung to his pale 
forehead, to show how hopeless it was now. I called him 
by name. He opened his eyes — larger, I thought, in the 
new vision that was beginning to dawn upon him — and 
recognised me. He whispered, ‘I’m glad you are come, 
but I don’t think you can do me any good.’ 

“ I could not tell him a lie. I could not say anything. 
I only pressed his hand in mine as he went on. 

“ ‘ But you will see father, and ask him to forgive me 


Ruperfs Christmas Gift, 325 

Nobody is to blame but myself. It was a long time before 
I understood why the drum came to me that Christmas 
night, and why it kept calling- to me every night, and what 
it said. I know it now. The work is done, and I am con- 
tent Tell father it is better as it is. I should have lived 
only to worry and perplex him, and something in me tells 
me this is right* 

“ He lay still for a moment, and then grasping my hand, 
said — 

«‘Hark!* 

“ I listened, but heard nothing but the suppressed moan^ 
of the wounded men around me. ‘ The drum,* he said 
faintly ; ‘ don’t you hear it ? — the drum is calling me.’ 

“ He reached out his arm to where it lay, as though he 
would embrace it 

“ ‘ Listen ’ — he went on — ‘ it’s the reveille. There are 
the ranks drawn up in review. Don’t you see the sunlight 
flash down the long line of bayonets? Their faces are 
shining — they present arms — there comes the General — but 
his face I cannot look at for the glory round his head. He 

sees me ; he smiles, it is ’ and with a name upon his lips 

that he had learned long ago, he stretched himself wearily 
upon the planks and lay quite still. 

“That’s aa 

“No questions now — never mind what became of the 
drum. 

“ Who’s that snivelling ? 

“Bless mv soul • where’s my pill-bov>" 



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M 


TALES OF THE ARGONAUTS. 




( 329 ) 


C!)e 3Piiali of ©anlig 'Bar. 

Before nine o’clock it was pretty well known all along the 
river that the two parties of the “Amity Claim” had 
quarrelled and separated at daybreak. At that time the 
attention of their nearest neighbour had been attracted by 
the sounds of altercations and two consecutive pistol-shots. 
Running out, he had seen dimly in the grey mist that 
rose from the river the tall form of Scott, one of the part- 
ners, descending the hill toward the canon ; a moment later, 
York, the other partner, had appeared from the cabin, and 
walked in an opposite direction toward the river, passing 
within a few feet of the curious watcher. Later it was dis- 
covered that a serious Chinaman, cutting wood before the 
cabin, had witnessed part of the quarrel. But John was 
stolid, indifferent, and reticent. “ Me choppee wood, me 
no fight ee,” was his serene response to all anxious queries. 
“But what did they say^ John?” John did not sabe. 
Colonel Starbottle deftly ran over the various popular 
epithets which a generous public sentiment might accept as 
reasonable provocation for an assault. But John did not 
recognise them. “And this yer’s the cattle,” said the 
Colonel, with some severity, “ that some thinks oughter be 
allowed to testify ag’n a White Man ! Git — ^you heathen I ” 
Still the quarrel remained inexplicable. That two men, 
whose amiability and grave tact had earned for them the 
title of “ The Peacemakers,” in a community not greatly 


330 The Iliad of Sandy Bar, 

given to the passive virtues, — that these men, singularly 
devoted to each other, should suddenly and violently quarrel, 
might well excite the curiosity of the camp. A few of the 
more inquisitive visited the late scene of conflict, now de- 
serted by its former occupants. There was no trace of 
disorder or confusion in the neat cabin. The rude table 
was arranged as if for breakfast ; the pan of yellow biscuit 
still sat upon that hearth whose dead embers might have 
typified the evil passions that had raged there but an hour 
before. But Colonel Starbottle’s eye — albeit somewhat 
bloodshot and rheumy — was more intent on practical detaila 
On examination, a bullet-hole was found in the doorpost, 
and another nearly opposite in the casing of the window. 
The Colonel called attention to the fact that the one “ agreed 
with ” the bore of Scott’s revolver, and the other with that 
of York’s derringer. “ They must hev stood about yer,” 
said the Colonel, taking position ; “ not mor’n three feet 
apart, and — missed ! ” There was a fine touch of pathos 
in the falling inflection of the Colonel’s voice, which was 
not without effect. A delicate perception of wasted oppor- 
tunity thrilled his auditors. 

But the Bar was destined to experience a greater dis- 
appointment. The two antagonists had not met since the 
quarrel, and it was vaguely rumoured that, on the occasion 
of a second meeting, each had determined to kill the other 
“ on sight.” There was, consequently, some excitement — 
and, it is to be feared, no little gratification — when, at ten 
o’clock, York stepped from the Magnolia Saloon into the 
one long straggling street of the camp, at the same moment 
that Scott left the blacksmith’s shop at the forks of the road 
It was evident, at a glance, that a meeting could only be 
avoided by the actual retreat of one or the other. 

In an instant the doors and windows of the adjacent 
saloons were filled with faces. Heads unaccountably 


331 


The Iliad of Sandy Bar, 

appeared above the river banks and from behind boulders. 
An empty waggon at the cross-road was suddenly crowded 
with people, who seemed to have sprung from the earth. 
There was much running and confusion on the hillside. 
On the mountain-road, Mr. Jack Hamlin had reined up his 
horse and w’as standing upright on the seat of his buggy. 
And the two objects of this absorbing attention approached 
each other. 

“York’s got the sun,” “Scott’ll line him on that tree,” 
“ He’s waiting to draw his fire,” came from the cart ; and 
then it was silent. But above this human breathlessness 
the river rushed and sang, and the wind rustled the tree- 
tops with an indifference that seemed obtrusive. Colonel 
Starbottle felt it, and in a moment of sublime preoccupation, 
without looking around, waved his cane behind him warn- 
ingly to all Nature, and said, “ Shu !” 

The men were now within a few feet of each other. A 
hen ran across the road before one of them. A feathery 
seed vessel, wafted from a wayside tree, fell at the feet of 
the other. And, unheeding this irony of Nature, the two 
opponents came nearer, erect and rigid, looked in each 
other’s eyes, and — passed ! 

Colonel Starbottle had to be lifted from the cart. “ This 
yer camp is played out,” he said gloomily, as he affected to 
be supported into the Magnolia. With what further ex- 
pression he might have indicated his feelings it was impos- 
sible to say, for at that moment Scott joined the group. 
“ Did you speak to me ? ” he asked of the Colonel, dropping 
his hand, as if with accidental familiarity, on that gentleman’s 
shoulder. The Colonel, recognising some occult quality in 
the touch, and some unknown quantity in the glance of his 
questioner, contented himself by replying, “ No, sir,” with 
dignity. A few rods away, York’s conduct was as charac- 
teristic and peculiar. “You had a mighty fine chance* 


332 


The Iliad of Sandy Bar. 

why didn’t you plump him?” said Jack Hamlin, as York 
drew near the buggy. “Because I hate him,” was the 
reply, heard only by Jack. Contrary to popular belief, 
this reply was not hissed between the lips of the speaker, 
but was said in an ordinary tone. But Jack Hamlin, who 
was an observer of mankind, noticed that the speaker’s 
hands were cold and his lips dry, as he helped him into 
the buggy, and accepted the seeming paradox with a smile. 

When Sandy Bar became convinced that the quarrel be- 
tween York and Scott could not be settled after the usual 
local methods, it gave no further concern thereto. But 
presently it was rumoured that the “ Amity Claim ” was in 
litigation, and that its possession would be expensively dis- 
puted by each of the partners. As it was well known that 
the claim in question was “ worked out” and worthless, and 
that the partners, whom it had already enriched, had talked 
of abandoning it but a day or two before the quarrel, this 
proceeding could only be accounted for as gratuitous spite. 
Later, two San Francisco lawyers made their appearance 
in this guileless Arcadia, and were eventually taken into the 
saloons, and — what was pretty much the same thing — the 
confidences of the inhabitants. The results of this un- 
hallowed intimacy were many subpoenas ; and, indeed, when 
the “Amity Claim” came to trial, all of Sandy Bar that 
was not in compulsory attendance at the county seat came 
there from curiosity. The gulches and ditches for miles 
around were deserted. I do not propose to describe that 
already famous trial. Enough that, in the language of the 
plaintiff’s counsel, “ it was one of no ordinary significance, 
involving the inherent rights of that untiring industry which 
had developed the Pactolian resources of this golden land ; ” 
and, in the homelier phrase of Colonel Starbottle, “ A fuss 
that gentlemen might hev settled in ten minutes over a 
iocial glass, ef they meant business ; or in ten seconds with 


333 


The Iliad oj Sandy Bar, 

E revolver, ef they meant fun.” Scott got a verdict, from 
which York instantly appealed. It was said that he had 
sworn to spend his last dollar in the struggle. 

In this way Sandy Bar began to accept the enmity of the 
former partners as a lifelong feud, and the fact that they had 
ever been friends was forgotten. The few who expected 
to learn from the trial the origin of the quarrel were dis 
appointed. Among the various conjectures, that which 
ascribed some occult feminine influence as the cause was 
naturally popular in a camp given to dubious compliment 
of the sex. “ My word for it, gentlemen,” said Colonel 
Starbottle, who had been known in Sacramento as a Gentle- 
man of the Old School, “there’s some lovely creature at the 
bottom of this.’* The gallant Colonel then proceeded to 
illustrate his theory by divers sprightly stories, such as 
Gentlemen of the Old School are in the habit of repeating, 
but which, from deference to the prejudices of gentlemen 
of a more recent school, I refrain from transcribing here. 
But it would appear that even the Colonel’s theory was 
fallacious. The only woman who personally might have 
exercised any influence over the partners was the pretty 
daughter of “ old man Folinsbee,” of Poverty Flat, at whose 
hospitable house — which exhibited some comforts and re- 
finements rare in that crude civilisation — both York and 
Scott were frequent visitors. Yet into this charming retreat 
York strode one evening a month after the quarrel, and. 
Deholding Scott sitting there, turned to the fair hostess with 
the abrupt query, “ Do you love this man ? ” The young 
woman thus addressed returned that answer — at once 
spirited and evasive — which would occur to most of my fair 
readers in such an exigency. Without another word, York 
left the house. “ Miss Jo ” heaved the least possible sigh 
as the door closed on York’s curls and square shoulders, 
End then, like a good girl, turned to her insulted guest 


3 34 Iliad of Sandy Bar, 

** But would you believe it, dear ? ” she afterwards related to 
an intimate friend, “the other creature, after glowering at 
me for a moment, got upon its hind legs, took its hat, and 
left too ; and that’s the last I’ve seen of either.” 

The same hard disregard of all other interests or feelings 
in the gratification of their blind rancour characterised all 
their actions. When York purchased the land below Scott’s 
new claim, and obliged the latter, at a great expense, to 
make a long detour to carry a “ tail-race ” around it, Scott 
retaliated by building a dam that overflowed York’s claim 
on the river. It was Scott who, in conjunction with Colonel 
Starbottle, first organised that active opposition to the 
Chinamen which resulted in the driving off of York’s Mon- 
golian labourers ; it was York who built the waggon-road and 
established the express which rendered Scott’s mules and 
pack-trains obsolete ; it was Scott who called into life the 
Vigilance Committee which expatriated York’s friend. Jack 
Hamlin ; it was York who created the “ Sandy Bar Herald,” 
which characterised the act as “ a lawless outrage ” and 
Scott as a “ Border Ruffian ; ” it was Scott, at the head of 
twenty masked men, who, one moonlight night, threw the 
offending “ forms ” into the yellow river, and scattered the 
types in the dusty road. These proceedings were received 
in the distant and more civilised outlying towns as vague 
indications of progress and vitality. I have before me a 
copy of the “Poverty Flat Pioneer” for the week ending 
August 12, 1856, in which the editor, under the head of 
“ County Improvements,” says : “ The new Presbyterian 
Church on C Street, at Sandy Bar, is completed. It stands 
upon the lot formerly occupied by the Magnolia Saloon, 
which was so mysteriously burnt last month. The temple, 
which now rises like a Phoenix from the ashes of the Mag- 
nolia, is virtually the free gift of H. J. York, Esq., of Sandy 
Bar, who purchased the lot and donated the lumber. Othei 


The Iliad of Sandy Bar. 335 

buildings are going up in the vicinity, but the most notice- 
able is the ‘ Sunny South Saloon,^ erected by Captain Mat. 
Scott, nearly opposite the church. Captain Scott has spared 
no expense in the furnishing of this saloon, which promises 
to be one of the most agreeable places of resort in old 
Tuolumne. He has recently imported two new first- 
class billiard-tables with cork cushions. Our old friend, 
* Mountain Jimmy,’ will dispense liquors at the bar. We 
refer our readers to the advertisement in another column. 
Visitors to Sandy Bar cannot do better than give ‘Jimmy’ 
a call” Among the local items occurred the following : — 
“H. J. York, Esq., of Sandy Bar, has offered a reward of 
$100 for the detection of the parties who hauled away the 
steps of the new Presbyterian Church, C Street, Sandy Bar, 
during divine service on* Sabbath evening last. Captain 
Scott adds another hundred for the capture of the miscreants 
who broke the magnificent plate-glass windows of the new 
saloon on the following evening. There is some talk of 
reorganising the old Vigilance Committee at Sandy Bar.” 

When, for many months of cloudless weather, the hard, 
unwinking sun of Sandy Bar had regularly gone down on 
the unpacified wrath of these men, there was some talk of 
mediation. In particular, the pastor of the church to 
which I have just referred — a sincere, fearless, but per- 
haps not fully enlightened man — seized gladly upon the 
occasion of York’s liberality to attempt to reunite the former 
partners. He preached an earnest sermon on the abstract 
sinfulness of discord and rancour. But the excellent sermons 
of the Rev. Mr. Daws were directed to an ideal congre- 
gation that did not exist at Sandy Bar, — a congregation of 
beings of unmixed vices and virtues, of single impulses, and 
perfectly logical motives, of preternatural simplicity, of 
childlike faith, and grown-up responsibilities. As unfor 
tunately the people who actually attended Mr. Daws’ 


33 ^ The Iliad of Sandy Bar, 

church were mainly very human, somewhat artful, more 
self-excusing than self-accusing, rather good-natured, and 
decidedly weak, they quietly shed that portion of the 
sermon which referred to themselves, and accepting York 
and Scott — who were both in defiant attendance — as 
curious examples of those ideal beings above referred to, 
felt a certain satisfaction — which, I fear, was not altogether 
Christian-like — in their “ raking- down.” If Mr. Daws 
expected York and Scott to shake hands after the sermon, 
he was disappointed. But he did not relax his purpose. 
With that quiet fearlessness and determination which had 
won for him the respect of men who were too apt to regard 
piety as synonymous with effeminacy, he attacked Scott in 
his own house. What he said has not been recorded, but 
it is to be feared that it was part of his sermon. When he 
had concluded, Scott looked at him, not unkindly, over the 
glasses of his bar, and said, less irreverently than the words 
might convey, “Young man, I rather like your style; but 
when you know York and me as well as you do God 
Almighty, it’ll be time to talk.” 


And so the feud progressed; and so, as in more 
illustrious examples, the private and personal enmity of two 
representative men led gradually to the evolution of some 
crude, half-expressed principle or belief. It was not long 
before it was made evident that those beliefs were identical 
with certain broad principles laid down by the founders of 
the American Constitution, as expounded by the states- 
manlike A., or were the fatal quicksands on which the 
ship of state might be wrecked, warningly pointed out by 
the eloquent B. The practical result of all which was the 
nomination of York and Scott to represent the opposite 
Actions of Sandy Bar in legislative councils. 


The Iliad of Sandy Bar. 337 

For some weeks past the voters of Sandy Bar and the 
adjacent camps had been called upon, in large type, to 
“ Rally ! " In vain the great pines at the cross roads — whose 
trunks were compelled to bear this and other legends — 
moaned and protested from their windy watch-towers. Bui 
one day, with fife and drum and flaming transparency, a pro- 
cession filed into the triangular grove at the head of the gulch. 
The meeting was called to order by Colonel Starbottle, who, 
having once enjoyed legislative functions, and being vaguely 
known as “war-horse,” was considered to be a valuable 
partisan of York. He concluded an appeal for his friend 
with an enunciation of principles, interspersed with one or 
two anecdotes so gratuitously coarse that the very pines 
might have been moved to pelt him with their cast-off 
cones as he stood there. But he created a laugh, on 
which his candidate rode into popular notice; and when 
York rose to speak, he was greeted. with cheers. But, to 
the general astonishment, the new speaker at once launched 
into bitter denunciation of his rival. He not only dwelt 
upon Scott’s deeds and example as known to Sandy Bar, 
but spoke of facts connected with his previous career 
hitherto unknown to his auditors. To great precision of 
epithet and directness of statement, the speaker added the 
fascination of revelation and exposure. The crowd cheered, 
yelled, and were delighted^ but when this astounding 
philippic was concluded, there was a unanimous call for 
“ Scott ! ” Colonel Starbottle would have resisted this 
manifest impropriety, but in vain. Partly from a crude sense 
of justice, partly from a meaner craving for excitement, the 
assemblage was inflexible ; and Scott was dragged, pushed, 
and pulled upon the platform. As his frowsy head and 
unkempt beard appeared above the railing, it was evident 
that he was drunk. But it was also evident, before he 
opened his lips, that the orator of Sandy Bar — the one man 

VOL. II. Y 


338 The Iliad of Sandy Bar. 

»rho could touch their vagabond sympathies (perhaps 
because he was not above appealing to them) — stood 
before them. A consciousness of this power lent a certain 
dignity to his figure, and I am not sure but that his very 
physical condition impressed them as a kind of regal 
unbending and large condescension. Howbeit, when this 
unexpected Hector arose from this ditch, York’s myrmidons 
trembled. “There’s naught, gentlemen,” said Scott, lean- 
ing forward on the railing, — “there’s naught as that man 
hez said as isn’t true. I was run outer Cairo ; I did belong 
to the Regulators; I did desert from the army; I did 
leave a wife in Kansas. But thar’s one thing he didn’t 
charge me with, and maybe he’s forgotten. For three 
years, gentlemen, I was that man’s pardner ! ” Whether 
he intended to say more, I cannot tell ; a burst of applause 
artistically rounded and enforced the climax, and virtually 
elected the speaker. That Fall he went to Sacramento, 
York went abroad, and for the first time in many years 
distance and a new atmosphere isolated the old antagonists. 

With little of change in the green wood, grey rock, and 
yellow river, but with much shifting of human landmarks 
and new faces in its habitations, three years passed over 
Sandy Bar. The two men, once so identified with its 
character, seemed to have been quite forgotten. “You 
will never return to Sandy Bar,” said Miss Folinsbee, the 
“Lily of Poverty Flat,” on meeting York in Paris, “for 
Sandy Bar is no more. They call it Riverside now ; and 
the new town is built higher up on the river bank. By the 
by, ‘Jo’ says that Scott has won his suit about the ‘ Amity 
Claim,’ and that he lives in the old cabin, and is drunk half 
his time. Oh, I beg your pardon,” added the lively lady, as 
a flush crossed York’s sallow cheek ; “ but, bless me, I 
really thought that old grudge was made up. I’m sure it 
ought to be.” 


The Iliad of Sandy Bar, 339 

It was three months after this conversation, and a pleasant 
summer evening, that the Poverty Flat coach drew up before 
the veranda of the Union Hotel at Sandy Bar. Among its 
passengers was one, apparently a stranger, in the local dis- 
tinction of well-fitting clothes and closely shaven face, who 
demanded a private room and retired early to rest. But 
before sunrise next morning he arose, and, drawing some 
clothes from his carpet-bag, proceeded to array himself in 
a pair of white duck trousers, a white duck overshirt, and 
straw hat. When his toilet was completed, he tied a red 
bandana handkerchief in a loop and threw it loosely over 
his shoulders. The transformation was complete. As he 
crept softly down the stairs and stepped into the road, no 
one would have detected in him the elegant stranger of 
the previous night, and but few have recognised the face 
and figure of Henry York of Sandy Bar. 

In the uncertain light of that early hour, and in the 
change that had come over the settlement, he had to pause 
for a moment to recall where he stood. The Sandy Bar of 
his recollection lay below him, nearer the river ; the build- 
ings around him were of later date and newer fashion. As 
he strode toward the river, he noticed here a schoolhouse 
and there a church. A little farther on, “The Sunny 
South ” came in view, transformed into a, restaurant, its 
gilding faded and its paint rubbed off. He now knew 
where he was; and running briskly down a declivity, 
crossed a ditch, and stood upon the lower boundary of the 
Amity Claim. 

The grey mist was rising slowly from the river, clinging 
to the tree-tops and drifting up the mountain-side, until it 
was caught among these rocky altars, and held a sacrifice 
to the ascending sun. At his feet the earth, cruelly gashed 
imd scarred by his forgotten engines, had, since the old 
days, put on a show of greenness here and there, and now 


540 The Iliad of Sandy Bar, 

smiled forgivingly up at him, as if things were not so bad 
after all A few birds were bathing in the ditch with a 
pleasant suggestion of its being a new and special provision 
of Nature, and a hare ran into an inverted sluice-box as he 
approached, as if it were put there for that purpose. 

He had not yet dared to look in a certain direction. 
But the sun was now high enough to paint the little 
eminence on which the cabin stood. In spite of his self- 
control, his heart beat faster as he raised his eyes toward it 
Its window and door were closed, no smoke came from its 
adobe chimney, but it was else unchanged. When within a 
few yards of it, he picked up a broken shovel, and shoulder- 
ing it with a smile, he strode toward the door and knocked. 
There was no sound from within. The smile died upon 
his lips as he nervously pushed the door open. 

A figure started up angrily and came toward him, — a 
figure whose bloodshot eyes suddenly fixed into a vacant 
stare, whose arms were at first outstretched and then thrown 
up in warning gesticulation, — a figure that suddenly gasped, 
choked, and then fell forward in a fit. 

But before he touched the ground, York had him out 
into the open air and sunshine. In the struggle, both fell 
and rolled over on the ground. But the next moment York 
was sitting up, 'holding the convulsed frame of his former 
partner on his knee, and wiping the foam from his inarticu- 
late lips. Gradually the tremor became less frequent and 
then ceased, and the strong man lay unconscious in his 
arms. 

For some moments York held him quietly thus, looking 
in his face. Afar, the stroke of a woodman’s axe — a mere 
phantom of sound — was all that broke the stillness. High 
up the mountain, a wheeling hawk hung breathlessly 
above Ciem. And then came voices, and two men joined 
ihem. 


The Iliad of Sandy Bar, 341 

“A fight?” No, a fit; and would they help him bring 
the sick man to the hotel ? 

And there for a week the stricken partner lay, uncon- 
scious of aught but the visions wrought by disease and fear. 
On the eighth day at sunrise he rallied, and opening his 
eyes, looked upon York and pressed his hand ; then he 
spoke : — 

“And it’s you. I thought it was only whisky.” 

York replied by only taking both of his hands, boyishly 
working them backward and forward, as his elbow rested on 
the bed, with a pleasant smile. 

“And you’ve been abroad. How did you like Paris?” 

“ So, so ! How did you like Sacramento ? ” 

“ Bully!” 

And that was all they could think to say. Presently Scott 
opened his eyes again. 

“ I’m mighty weak.” 

“ You’ll get better soon.* 

“Not much.” 

A long silence followed, in which they could hear the 
sounds of wood-chopping, and that Sandy Bar was already 
astir for the coming day. Then Scott slowly and with diffi- 
culty turned his face to York and said — 

“ I might hev killed you once.” 

“ I wish you had.” 

They pressed each other’s hands again, but Scott’s grasp 
was evidently failing. He seemed to summon his energies 
for a special effort. 

“ Old man ! ” 

“ Old chap.” 

“Closer!” 

York bent his head toward the slowly fading faca 

“ Do ye mind that morning ? ” 

•^Yes.” 


342 The Iliad of Sandy Bar, 

A gleam of fun slid into the corner of Scott’s blue eye as 
he whispered — 

“ Old man, thar was too much saleratus in that bread ! ” 

It is said that these were his last words. For when the 
sun, which had so often gone down upon the idle wrath 
of these foolish men, looked again upon them reunited, it 
saw the hand of Scott fall cold and irresponsive from the 
yearning clasp of his former partner, and it knew that 
the feud of Sandy Bar was at an end. 


< 343 > 


^r. Cftomp0on’iff JptrotiigaT, 

We all knew that Mr. Thompson was looking for his son, 
and a pretty bad one at that. That he was coming to Cali- 
fornia for this sole object was no secret to his fellow- 
passengers ; and the physical peculiarities as well as the 
moral weaknesses of the missing prodigal were made 
equally plain to us through the frank volubility of the 
parent “You was speaking of a young man which was 
hung at Red Dog for sluice-robbing,” said Mr. Thompson 
to a steerage passenger one day; “be you aware of the 
colour of his eyes ? ” “ Black,” responded the passenger. 
“ Ah ! ” said Mr. Thompson, referring to some mental memo- 
randa, “Char-les’s eyes was blue.” He then walked away. 
Perhaps it was from this unsympathetic mode of inquiry, 
perhaps it was from that Western predilection to take a 
humorous view of any principle or sentiment persistently 
brought before them, that Mr. Thompson’s quest was the 
subject of some satire among the passengers. A gratuitous 
advertisement of the missing Charles, addressed to “Jailers 
and Guardians,” circulated privately among them; every- 
body remembered to have met Charles under distressing 
circumstances. Yet it is but due to my countrymen to state 
that when it was known that Thompson had embarked some 
wealth in this visionary project, but little of this satire found 
its way to his ears, and nothing was uttered in his hearing 
that might bring a pang to a father’s heart or imperil a 


344 Thompsons Prodigal, 

possible pecuniary advantage of the satirist. Indeed, Mr. 
Bracy Tibbets’ jocular proposition to form a joint-stock 
company to “ prospect ” for the missing youth received at 
one time quite serious entertainment. 

Perhaps to superficial criticism Mr. Thompson’s nature 
was not picturesque nor lovable. His history, as imparted 
at dinner one day by himself, was practical even in its 
singularity. After a hard and wilful youth and maturity, 
in which he had buried a broken-spirited wife and driven 
his son to sea, he suddenly experienced religion. “ I got 
it in New Orleans in ’59,” said Mr. Thompson, with the 
general suggestion of referring to an epidemic. “Enter 
ye the narrer gate. Parse me the beans.” Perhaps this 
practical quality upheld him in his apparently hopeless 
search. He had no clew to the whereabouts of his runaway 
son; indeed, scarcely a proof of his present existence. 
From his indifferent recollection of the boy of twelve he 
now expected to identify the man of twenty-five. 

It would seem that he was successful How he succeeded 
was one of the few things he did not tell There are, I 
believe, two versions of the story. One, that Mr. Thompson, 
visiting a hospital, discovered his son by reason of a peculiar 
hymn, chanted by the sufferer in a delirious dream of his 
boyhood. This version, giving as it did wide range to the 
finer feelings of the heart, was quite popular ; and as told 
by the Rev. Mr. Gushington on his return from his Cali- 
fornia tour, never failed to satisfy an audience. The other 
was less simple, and, as I shall adopt it here, deserves more 
elaboration. 

It was after Mr. Thompson had given up searching for 
his son among the living, and had taken to the examination 
of cemeteries and a careful inspection of the “ cold hie 
facets of the dead.” At this time he was a frequent visitor 
of “Lone Mountain,” a dreary hill-top, bleak enough in 


Mr. ThompsofUs ProdigaL 345 

its original isolation, and bleaker for the whitefaced marbles 
by which San Francisco anchored her departed citizens, 
and kept them down in a shifting sand that refused to cover 
them, and against a fierce and persistent wind that strove 
to blow them utterly away. Against this wind the old man 
opposed a will quite as persistent, a grizzled hard face, 
and a tall crape-bound hat drawn tightly over his eyes, — 
and so spent days in reading the mortuary inscriptions 
audibly to himself. The frequency of Scriptural quotation 
pleased him, and he was fond of corroborating them by a 
pocket Bible. “ That’s from Psalms,” he said one day to 
an adjacent gravedigger. The man made no reply. Not 
at all rebuffed, Mr. Thompson at once slid down into the 
open grave with a more practical inquiry, “ Did you ever, 
in your profession, come across Char-les Thompson ? ” 
“ Thompson be d — d ! ” said the gravedigger, with great 
directness. “ Which, if he hadn’t religion, I think he is,” 
responded the old man, as he clambered out of the grave. 

It was perhaps on this occasion that Mr. Thompson 
stayed later than usual. As he turned his face toward the 
city, lights were beginning to twinkle ahead, and a fierce 
wind, made visible by fog, drove him forward, or, lying in 
wait, charged him angrily from the corners of deserted 
suburban streets. It was at one of these corners that some- 
thing else, quite as indistinct and malevolent, leaped upon 
him with an oath, a presented pistol, and a demand for 
money. But it was met by a will of iron and a grip of 
steel. The assailant and assailed rolled together on the 
ground. But the next moment the old man was erect; 
one hand grasping the captured pistol, the other clutching 
at arm’s length the throat of a figure, surly, youthful, and 
savage. 

“ Young man,” said Mr. Thompson, setting his thin lips 
together, “ what might be your name ? ” 


34 ^ Mr, Thompso7i s Prodigal. 

** Thompson ! ” 

The old man’s hand slid from the throat to the arm of 
his prisoner without relaxing its firmness. 

“ Char-les Thompson, come with me,” he said presently, 
and marched his captive to the hotel. What took place 
there has not transpired, but it was known the next morning 
that Mr. Thompson had found his son. 

It is proper to add to the above improbable story, that 
there was nothing in the young man’s appearance or manners 
to justify it. Grave, reticent, and handsome, devoted to 
his newly found parent, he assumed the emoluments and 
responsibilities of his new condition with a certain serious 
ease that more nearly approached that which San Francisco 
society lacked and — rejected. Some chose to despise this 
quality as a tendency to “ psalm-singing ; ” others saw in it 
the inherited qualities of the parent, and were ready to pro- 
phesy for the son the same hard old age. But all agreed 
that it was not inconsistent with the habits of money-getting 
for which father and son were respected. 

And yet the old man did not seem to be happy. Per- 
haps it was that the consummation of his wishes left him 
without a practical mission ; perhaps — and it is the more 
probable — he had little love for the son he had regained. 
The obedience he exacted was freely given, the reform he 
had set his heart upon was complete ; and yet somehow it 
did not seem to please him. In reclaiming his son he had 
fulfilled all the requirements that his religious duty required 
of him, and yet the act seemed to lack sanctification. In 
this perplexity he read again the parable of the Prodigal 
Son, which he had long ago adopted for his guidance, 
and found that he had omitted the final feast of reconcilia- 
tion. This seemed to offer the proper quality of cere- 
inoniousness in the sacrament between himself and his son 
and so, a year after the appearance of Charles, he set about 


347 


Mr. Thompsons Prodigal. 

giving him a party. “ Invite everybody, Char-les,” he said 
dryly ; “ everybody who knows that I brought you out oi the 
wine-husks of iniquity and the company of harlots, and 
bid them eat, drink, and be merry.” 

Perhaps the old man had another reason, not yet clearly 
analysed. The fine house he had built on the sandhills 
sometimes seemed lonely and bare. He often found him- 
self trying to reconstruct, from the grave features of Charles, 
the little boy whom he but dimly remembered in the past, 
and of whom lately he had been thinking a great deal. He 
believed this to be a sign of impending old age and child- 
ishness ; but coming one day, in his formal drawing-room, 
upon a child of one of the servants, who had strayed 
therein, he would have taken him in his arms, but the child 
fied from before his grizzled face. So that it seemed emi- 
nently proper to invite a number of people to his house, and 
from the array of San Francisco maidenhood to select a 
daughter-in-law. And then there would be a child — a boy, 
whom he could “rare up” from the beginning, and love 
^as he did not love Charles. 

We were all at the party. The Smiths, Joneses, Browns, 
and Robinsons also came, in that fine flow of animal spirits, 
unchecked by any respect for the entertainer, which most 
of us are apt to find so fascinating. The proceedings would 
have been somewhat riotous but for the social position of 
the actors. In fact, Mr. Bracy Tibbets, having naturally a 
fine appreciation of a humorous situation, but further 
impelled by the bright eyes of the Jones girls, conducted 
himself so remarkably as to attract the serious regard of Mr. 
Charles Thompson, who approached him, saying quietly, 
“You look ill, Mr. Tibbets; let me conduct you to yoiii 
carriage. Resist, you hound, and I’ll throw you through 
that window. This way, please ; the room is close and dis- 
tressing.” It is hardly necessary to say that but a f>art of 


34^ Thompsons Prodigal, 

ihis speech was audible to the company, and that the rest 
was not divulged by Mr. Tibbets, who afterwards regretted 
the sudden illness which kept him from witnessing a certain 
amusing incident, which the fastest Miss Jones characterised 
as the “richest part of the blow-out,” and which I hasten to 
record. 

It was at supper. It was evident that Mr. Thompsom 
had -overlooked much lawlessness in the conduct of the 
younger people in his abstract contemplation of some 
impending event. When the cloth was removed, he rose to 
his feet and grimly tapped upon the table. A titter, that 
broke out among the Jones girls, became epidemic on one 
side of the board. Charles Thompson, from the foot of the 
table, looked up in tender perplexity. “ He’s going to sing 
a Doxology,” “ He’s going to pray,” “ Silence for a speech,” 
ran round the room. 

“ It’s one year to-day, Christian brothers and sisters,” 
said Mr. Thompson with grim deliberation, — “one year 
to-day since my son came home from eating of wine-husks 
and spending of his substance on harlots.” (The tittering 
suddenly ceased.) “ Look at him now. Charles Thompson, 
stand up.” (Charles Thompson stood up.) “One year 
ago to-day, — and look at him now.” 

He was certainly a handsome prodigal, standing there in 
his cheerful evening-dress, — a repentant prodigal, with sad 
obedient eyes turned upon the harsh and unsympathetic 
glance of his father. The youngest Miss Smith, from the 
pure depths of her foolish little heart, moved unconsciously 
toward him. 

“ It’s fifteen years ago since he left my house,” said Mr. 
Thompson, “ a rovier and a prodigal I was myself a man 
of sin, O Christian friends, — a man of wrath and bitter- 
ness ” — (“ Amen,” from the eldest Miss Smith) — “ but praise 
be God, I’ve fled the wrath to come. It’s five years ago since 


Mr, Thompsori s Prodigal. 349 

I got the peace that passeth understanding. Have you got 
it, friends?” (A general sub-chorus of “ No, no,” from the 
girls, and, “ Pass the word for it,” from Midshipman Coxe, 
of the U.S. sloop Wethersfield.) “Knock, and it shall be 
opened to you. 

“And when I found the error of my ways, and the 
preciousness of grace,” continued Mr. Thompson, “ I came 
to give it to my son. By sea and land I sought him far, and 
fainted not. I did not wait for him to come to me, which 
the same I might have done, and justified myself by the Book 
of books, but I sought him out among his husks, and ” 
(the rest of the sentence was lost, in the rustling withdrawal 
of the ladies). “Works, Christian friends, is my motto. By 
their works shall ye know them, and there is mine.” 

The particular and accepted work to which Mr. Thomp- 
son was alluding had turned quite pale, and was looking 
fixedly toward an open door leading to the veranda, lately 
filled by gaping servants, and now the scene of some vague 
tumult. As the noise continued, a man, shabbily dressed 
and evidently in liquor, broke through the opposing guar- 
dians and staggered into the room. The transition from 
the fog and darkness without to the glare and heat within 
evidently dazzled and stupefied him. He removed his bat- 
tered hat, and passed it once or twice before his eyes, as 
he steadied himself, but unsuccessfully, by the back of a 
chair. Suddenly his wandering glance fell upon the pale 
face of Charles Thompson ; and with a gleam of childlike 
recognition, and a weak falsetto laugh, he darted forward, 
caught at the table, upset the glasses, and literally fell upon 
the prodigal’s breast. 

“ Sha’ly ! yo’ d — d ol’ scoun’rel, hoo rar ye ! ” 

“ Hush ! — sit down ! — hush ! ” said Charles Thompson, 
hurriedly endeavouring to extricate himself from the ero 
brace of his unexpected guest. 


350 Mr, Thompsori s Prodigal, 

“ Look at ” continued the stranger, unheeding the 
admonition, but suddenly holding the unfortunate Charles 
at arm’s length, in loving and undisguised admiration of his 
festive appearance. “ Look at ’m! Ain’t he nasty ? Sha’ls, 
I’m prow of yer ! ” 

“ Leave the house ! ” said Mr. Thompson, rising, with a 
dangerous look in his cold grey eye. “ Char-les, how daie 
you ? ” 

“ Simmer down, ole man ! Sha’ls, who’s th’ ol’ bloat ? 
Eh?” 

“ Hush, man ; here, take this ! ” With nervous hands, 
Charles Thompson filled a glass with liquor. “ Drink it 
and go — until to-morrow — any time, but — leave us ! — go 
now ! ” But even then, ere the miserable wretch could 
drink, the old man, pale with passion, was upon him. Half 
carrying him in his powerful arms, half-dragging him through 
the circling crowd of frightened guests, he had reached the 
door, swung open by the waiting servants, when Charles 
Thompson started from a seeming stupor, crying — 

“Stop!” 

The old man stopped. Through the open door the fog 
and wind drove chilly. “ What does this mean ? ” he 
asked, turning a baleful face on Charles. 

‘Nothing — but stop — for God’s sake. Wait till to-mor- 
row, but not to-night. Do not, I implore you — do this 
thing.” 

There was something in the tone of the young man’s 
voice, something, perhaps, in the contact of the struggling 
wretch he held in his powerful arms ; but a dim, indefinite 
fear took possession of the old man’s heart. “ Who,” he 
whispered hoarsely, “ is this man ? ” 

Charles did not answer. 

“ Stand back, there, all of you,” thundered Mr. Thomp- 
son, to the crowding guests around him. “ Char-les — come 


Mr, Thompsons Prodigal, 351 

here ! I command you — I — I — I — beg you — tell me who 
is this man ? ” 

Only two person^ heard the answer that came faintly from 
the lips of Charles Thompson — 

“Your SON.” 

When day broke over the bleak sandhills, the guests had 
departed from Mr. Thompson’s banquet-halls. The light? 
still burned dimly and coldly in the deserted rooms, — 
deserted by all but three figures, that huddled together in 
the chill drawing-room, as if for warmth. One lay in 
drunken slumber on a couch ; at his feet sat he who had 
been known as Charles Thompson ; and beside them, 
haggard and shrunken to half his size, bowed the figure of 
Mr. Thompson, his grey eye fixed, his elbows upon his 
knees, and his hands clasped over his ears, as if to shut out 
the sad, entreating voice that seemed to fill the room. 

“God knows, I did not set about to wilfully deceive. 
The name I gave that night was the first that came into my 
thought, — the name of one whom I thought dead, — the 
dissolute companion of my shame. And when you ques- 
tioned further, I used the knowledge that I gained from 
him to touch your heart to set me free ; only, I swear, for 
that ! But when you told me who you were, and I first saw 
the opening of another life before me — then — then — O sir, 
if I was hungry, homeless, and reckless when I would have 
robbed you of your gold, I was heart-sick, helpless, and 
desperate when I would have robbed you of your love ! ” 
The old man stirred not. From his luxurious couch the 
newly found prodigal snored peacefully. 

“ I had no father I could claim. I never knew a home 
but this. I was tempted. I have been happy, — very happy ” 
He rose and stood before the old man. 

“ Do not fear that I shall come between your son and his 
inheritance. To-day I leave this place, never to return. 


352 Mr . Thompson' s Prodigal. 

The world is large, sir, and, thanks to your kindness, I now 
see the way by which an honest livelihood is gained. Good- 
bye. You will not take my hand ? Well, well ! Good-bye.” 

He turned to go. But when he had reached the door 
he suddenly came back, and, raising with both hands the 
grizzled head, he kissed it once and twice. 

Char-les ! ” 

There was no reply. 

» Char-les!” 

The old man rose with a frightened air, and tottered 
feebly to the door. It was open. There came to him the 
awakened tumult of a great city, in which the prodigal’s 
footsteps were lost for ever. 


( 353 ) 


CTfte Eomance of 90al3cono 5)oIIoto. 

The latch on the garden gate of the Folinsbee Ranch 
clicked twice. The gate itself was so much in shadow that 
lovely night, that “old man Folinsbee,” sitting on his porch, 
could distinguish nothing but a tall white hat and beside it 
a few fluttering ribbons, under the pines that marked the 
entrance. Whether because of this fact, or that he con- 
sidered a sufficient time had elapsed since the clicking of 
the latch for more positive disclosure, I do not know ; but 
after a few moments’ hesitation he quietly laid aside his 
pipe and walked slowly down the winding path toward the 
gate. At the Ceanothus hedge he stopped and listened. 

There was not much to hear. The hat was saying to the 
ribbons that it was a fine night, and remarking generally 
upon the clear outline of the Sierras against the blue-black 
sky. The ribbons, it so appeared, had admired this all 
the way home, and asked the hat if it had ever seen any- 
thing half so lovely as the moonlight on the summit. The 
hat never had ; it recalled some lovely nights in the South 
in Alabama (“in the South in Ahlabahm” was the way the 
old man heard it), but then there were other things that 
made this night seem so pleasant. The ribbons could not 
possibly conceive what the hat couid be thinking about. 
At this point there was a pause, of which Mr. Folinsbee 
availed himself to walk very grimly and craunchingly down 
the gravel-walk toward the gate. Then the hat was lifted, 

VOL. II. z 


354 Romance of Madrono Hollow, 

and disappeared in the shadow, and Mr. Folinsbee con- 
fronted only the half-foolish, half-mischievous, but wholly 
pretty face of his daughter. 

It was afterwards known to Madrono Hollow that sharp 
words passed between “ Miss Jo ” and the old man, and 
that the latter coupled the names of one Culpepper Star- 
bottle and his uncle, Colonel Starbottle, with certain uncom- 
plimentary epithets, and that Miss Jo retaliated sharply. 
“ Her father’s blood before her father’s face boiled up and 
proved her truly of his race,” quoted the blacksmith, who 
leaned toward the noble verse of Byron. “ She saw the old 
man’s bluff and raised him,” was the direct comment of the 
college-bred Masters. 

Meanwhile the subject of these animadversions proceeded 
slowly along the road to a point where the Folinsbee mansion 
came in view, — a long, narrow, white building, unpreten- 
tious, yet superior to its neighbours, and bearing some 
evidences of taste and refinement in the vines that clam- 
bered over its porch, in its French windows, and the white 
muslin curtains that kept out the fierce California sun by 
day, and were now touched with silver in the gracious 
moonlight. Culpepper leaned against the low fence, and 
gazed long and earnestly at the building. Then the moon- 
light vanished ghostlike from one of the windows, a material 
glow took its place, and a girlish figure, holding a candle, 
drew the white curtains together. To Culpepper it was a 
vestal virgin standing before a hallowed shrine ; to the 
prosaic observer I fear it was only a fair-haired young 
woman, whose wicked black eyes still shone with unfilial 
warmth. Howbeit, when the figure had disappeared, he 
stepped out briskly into the moonlight of the highroad. 
Here he took off his distinguishing hat to wipe his forehead, 
and the moon shone full upon his face. 

It was not an unprepossessing one, albeit a trifle too thin 


The Romance of Madrono Hollow. 355 

and lank and bilious to be altogether pleasant. The cheek- 
bones were prominent, and the black eyes sunken in their 
orbits. Straight black hair fell slantwise off a high but 
narrow forehead, and swept part of a hollow cheek. A long 
black mustache followed the perpendicular curves of his 
mouth. It was on the whole a serious, even Quixotic face, 
l)ut at times it was relieved by a rare smile of such tender 
and even pathetic sweetness, that Miss Jo is reported to 
have said that, if it would only last through the ceremony, 
she would have married its possessor on the spot. “ I once 
told him so,” added that shameless young woman ; but 
the man instantly fell into a settled melancholy, and hasn’t 
smiled since.” 

A half mile below the Folinsbee Ranch the white road- 
dipped and was crossed by a trail that ran through Madrono 
Hollow. Perhaps because it was a near cut-off to the settle- 
ment, perhaps from some less practical reason, Culpepper 
took this trail, and in a few moments stood among the rarely 
beautiful trees that gave their name to the valley. Even in 
that uncertain light the weird beauty of these harlequin 
masqueraders was apparent ; their red trunks — a blush in 
the moonlight, a deep blood-stain in the shadow — stood 
out against the silvery green foliage. It was as if Nature 
in some gracious moment had here caught and crystallised 
the gipsy memories of the transplanted Spaniard, to cheer 
him in his lonely exile. 

As Culpepper entered the grove he heard loud voices. 
As he turned toward a clump of trees, a figure so bizarre 
and characteristic that it might have been a resident Daphne 
■ — a figure over- dressed in crimson silk and lace, with 
bare brown arms and shoulders, and a wreath of honey- 
suckle — stepped out of the shadow. It was followed by a 
man. Culpepper started. To come to the point briefly, 
he recognised in the man the features of his respected 


356 The Romance of Madrono Hollow, 

uncle, Colonel Starbottle ; in the female, a lady who may 
be briefly described as one possessing absolutely no claim 
to an introduction to the polite reader. To hurry over 
equally unpleasant details, both were evidently under the 
influence of liquor. 

From the exciting conversation that ensued, Culpepper 
gathered that some insult had been put upon the lady at a 
public ball which she had attended that evening ; that the 
Colonel, her escort, had failed to resent it with the sangui- 
nary completeness that she desired. I regret that, even in 
a liberal age, I may not record the exact and even pictur- 
esque language in which this was conveyed to her hearers. 
Enough that at the close of a fiery peroration, with femi- 
•nine inconsistency she flew at the gallant Colonel, and 
would have visited her delayed vengeance upon his luck- 
less head, but for the prompt interference of Culpepper. 
Thwarted in this, she threw herself upon the ground, and 
then into unpicturesque hysterics. There was a fine moral 
lesson, not only in this grotesque performance of a sex 
which cannot aflbrd to be grotesque, but in the ludicrous 
concern with which it inspired the two men. Culpepper, 
to whom woman was more or less angelic, was pained and 
sympathetic; the Colonel to whom she was more or less 
improper, was exceedingly terrified and embarrassed. How- 
beit the storm was soon over, and after Mistress Dolores 
had returned a little dagger to its sheath (her garter), she 
quietly took herself out of Madrono Hollow, and happily 
out of these pages for ever. The two men, left to them- 
selves, conversed in low tones. Dawn stole upon them 
oefore they separated : the Colonel quite sobered and in 
full possession of his usual jaunty self-assertion ; Culpeppef 
with a baleful glow in his hollow cheek, and in his dark 
eyes a rising fire. 

The next morning the general ear of Madrono Hollow 


The Romance of Madrono Hollow. 357 

iras filled with rumours of the Colonel’s mishap. It was 
asserted that he had been invited to withdraw his female 
companion from the floor of the Assembly Ball at the In- 
dependence Hotel, and that, failing to do this, both were 
expelled. It is to be regretted that in 1854 public opinion 
was divided in regard to the propriety of this step, and that 
there was some discussion as to the comparative virtue of 
the ladies who were not expelled ; but it was generally con- 
ceded that the real casus belli was political. “ Is this a 
dashed Puritan meeting ? ” had asked the Colonel savagely. 
“ It’s no Pike County shindig,” had responded the floor- 
manager, cheerfully. “ You’re a Yank ! ” had screamed the 
Colonel, profanely qualifying the noun. “ Get ! you border 
ruffian,” was the reply. Such at least was the substance of 
the reports. As, at that sincere epoch, expressions like the 
above were usually followed by prompt action, a fracas was 
confidently looked for. 

Nothing, however, occurred. Colonel Starbottle made 
his appearance next day upon the streets with somewhat of 
his usual pomposity, a little restrained by the presence of 
his nephew, who accompanied him, and who, as a universal 
favourite, also exercised some restraint upon the curious and 
impertinent. But Culpepper’s face wore a look of anxiety 
quite at variance with his usual grave repose. “ The 
Don don’t seem to take the old man’s set-back kindly,” 
obsen/ed the sympathising blacksmith. “ P’r’aps he was 
sweet on Dolores himself,” suggested the sceptical express- 
man. 

It was a bright morning, a week after this occurrence, 
that Miss Jo Folinsbee stepped from her garden into the 
road. This time the latch did not click as she cautiously 
closed the gate behind her. After a moment’s irresolution, 
which would have been awkward but that it was charmingly 
employed, after the manner of her sex, in adjusting a bow 


358 The Romance of Madrono Hollow, 

under a dimpled but rather prominent chin, and in pulling 
down the fingers of a neatly fitting glove, she tripped to- 
ward the settlement. Small wonder that a passing teamster 
drove his six mules into the wayside ditch and imperilled 
his load to keep the dust from her spotless garments } small 
wonder that the “Lightning Express” withheld its speed 
and flash to let her pass, and that the expressman, who had 
never been known to exchange more than rapid mono- 
syllables with his fellow-man, gazed after her with breathless 
admiration. For she was certainly attractive. In a country 
where the ornamental sex followed the example of youthful 
Nature, and were prone to overdress and glaring efflores- 
cence, Miss Jo’s simple and tasteful raiment added much 
to the physical charm of, if it did not actually suggest a 
sentiment to, her presence. It is said that Euchre-deck 
Billy, working in the gulch at the crossing, never saw Miss 
Folinsbee pass but that he always remarked apologetically 
to his partner, that “he believed he must write a letter 
home.” Even Bill Masters, who saw her in Paris presented 
to the favourable criticism of that most fastidious man, the 
late Emperor^ said that she was stunning, but a big discount 
on what she was at Madrono Hollow. 

It was still early morning, but the sun, with California 
extravagance, had already begun to beat hotly on the little 
chip hat and blue ribbons, and Miss Jo was obliged to seek 
the shade of a bypath. Here she received the timid -ad- 
vances of a vagabond yellow dog graciously, until, em- 
boldened by his success, he insisted upon accompanying 
her, and, becoming slobberingly demonstrative, threatened 
her spotless skirt with his dusty paws, when she drove him 
from her with some slight acerbity, and a stone which haply 
fell within fifty feet of its destined mark. Having thus 
proved her ability to defend herself, with characteristic 
inconsistency she took a small panic, and, gathering hei 


The Romance of Madrono Hollow. 3 59 

white skirts in one hand, and holding the brim of her hat 
over her eyes with the other, she ran swiftly at least a 
hundred yards before she stopped. Then she began pick- 
ing some ferns and a few wildflowers still spared to the 
withered fields, and then a sudden distrust of her small 
ankles seized her, and she inspected them narrowly for 
those burrs and bugs and snakes which are supposed to lie 
in wait for helpless womanhood. Then she plucked some 
golden heads of wild oats, and with a sudden inspiration 
placed them in her black hair, and then came quite un- 
consciously upon the trail leading to Madrono Hollow. 

Here she hesitated. Before her ran the little trail, vanish- 
ing at last into the bosky depths below. The sun was very 
hot She must be very far from home. Why should she 
not rest awhile under the shade of a madrono ? 

She answered these questions by going there at once. 
After thoroughly exploring the grove, and satisfying herself 
that it contained no other living human creature, she sat 
down under one of the largest trees with a satisfactory little 
sigh. Miss Jo loved the madrono. It was a cleanly tree ; 
no dust ever lay upon its varnished leaves ; its immaculate 
shade never was known to harbour grub or insect. 

She looked up at the rosy arms interlocked and arched 
above her head. She looked down at the delicate ferns and 
cryptogams at her feet. Something glittered at the root of 
the tree. She picked it up ; it was a bracelet. She examined 
it carefully for cipher or inscription ; there was none. She 
could not resist a natural desire to clasp it on her arm, and 
to survey it from that advantageous view-point. This ab- 
sorbed her attention for some moments ; and when she 
looked up again she beheld at a little distance Culpepper 
Starbottle. 

He was standing where he had halted, with instinctive 
delicacy, on first discovering her. Indeed, he had even 


360 The Romance of Madrono Hollow. 

deliberated whether he ought not to go away without dis- 
turbing her. But some fascination held him to the spot 
Wonderful power of humanity ! Far beyond jutted an out- 
lying spur of the Sierra, vast, compact, and silent Scarcely 
a hundred yards away, a league-long chasm dropped its 
sheer walls of granite a thousand feet. On every side rose 
up the serried ranks of pine trees, in whose close-set files 
centuries of storm and change had wrought no breach. Yet 
all this seemed to Culpepper to have been planned by an 
allwise Providence as the natural background to the figure 
of a pretty girl in a yellow dress. 

Although Miss Jo had confidently expected to meet 
Culpepper somewhere in her ramble, now that he came 
upon her suddenly, she felt disappointed and embarrassed. 
His manner, too, was more than usually grave and serious, 
and more than ever seemed to jar upon that audacious levity 
which was this giddy girl’s power and security in a society 
where all feeling was dangerous. As he approached her she 
rose to her feet, but almost before she knew it he had taken 
her hand and drawn her to a seat beside him. This was not 
what Miss Jo had expected, but nothing is so difficult to pre- 
dicate as the exact preliminaries of a declaration of love. 

What did Culpepper say? Nothing, I fear, that will add 
anything to the wisdom of the reader ; nothing, I fear, that 
Miss Jo had not heard substantially from other lips before. 
But there was a certain conviction, fire-speed, and fury in 
the manner that was deliciously novel to the young lady. 
It was certainly something to be courted in the nineteenth 
century with all the passion and extravagance of the six- 
teenth ; it was something to hear, amid the slang of a 
frontier society, the language of knight-errantry poured into 
her ear by this lantern-jawed, dark-browed descendant of 
the Cavaliers. 

I do not know that there was anything more in it. The 


The Romance of Madrono Hollow, 361 

facts, however, go to show that at a certain point Miss Jo 
dropped her glove, and that in recovering it Culpepper pos- 
sessed himself first of her hand and then her lips. When 
they stood up to go, Culpepper had his arm around her 
waist, and her black hair, with its sheaf of golden oats, 
rested against the breast-pocket of his coat. But even then 
I do not think her fancy was entirely captive. She took a 
certain satisfaction in this demonstration of Culpepper’s 
splendid height, and mentally compared it with a former 
flame, one Lieutenant McMirk, an active but under-sized 
Hector, who subsequently fell a victim to the incautiously 
composed and monotonous beverages of a frontier garrison. 
Nor was she so much preoccupied but that her quick eyes, 
even while absorbing Culpepper’s glances, were yet able 
to detect, at a distance, the figure of a man approaching. 
In an instant she slipped out of Culpepper’s arm, and, 
whipping her hands behind her, said, “ There’s that horrid 
man ! ” 

Culpepper looked up and beheld his respected uncle 
panting and blowing over the hill. His brow contracted as 
he turned to Miss Jo : ‘‘You don’t like my uncle !” 

“ I hate him ! ” Miss Jo was recovering her ready tongue. 

Culpepper blushed. He would have liked to enter upon 
some details of the Colonel’s pedigree and exploits, but 
there was not time. He only smiled sadly. The smile 
melted Miss Jo. She held out her hand quickly, and said 
with even more than her usual effrontery, “ Don’t let that 
man get you into any trouble. Take care of yourself, dear, 
find don’t let anything happen to you.” 

Miss Jo intended this speech to be pathetic; the tenure 
of life among her lovers had hitherto been very uncertain. 
Culpepper turned toward her, but she had already vanished 
IQ the thicket 

The Colonel came up panting. “IVe looked all ovcf 


36 i The Romance of Madrono Hollow, 

town for you, and be dashed to you, sir. Who was that 
with you ? ” 

“A lady.” (Culpepper never lied, but he was discreet.) 

“ D — n ’em all ! Look yar, Culp, Tve spotted the man 
who gave the order to put me off the floor ” (“ flo ” was 
what the Colonel said) “ the other night ! ” 

“ Who was it ? ” asked Culpepper, listlessly. 

“ Jack Folinsbee.” 

Who?” 

“ Why, the son of that dashed, nigger-worshipping, psalm- 
singing, Puritan Yankee. What’s the matter, now? Look 
yar, Culp, you ain’t goin’ back on your blood, are ye ? You 
ain’t goin’ back on your word ? Ye ain’t going down at the 
feet of this trash, like a whipped hound ? ” 

Culpepper was silent. He was very white. Presently 
he looked up and said quietly, “ No.” 

Culpepper Starbottle had challenged Jack Folinsbee, 
and the challenge w'as accepted. The cause alleged w'as 
the expelling of Culpepper’s uncle from the floor of the 
Assembly Ball Ly the order of Folinsbee. This much 
Madrono Hollow knew and could swear to ; but there were 
other strange rumours afloat, of which the blacksmith was 
an able expounder. “ You see, gentlemen,” he said to the 
crowd gathered around his anvil, “ I ain’t got no theory of 
this affair; I only give a few facts as have come to my 
knowledge. Culpepper and Jack meets quite accidental 
like in Bob’s saloon. Jack goes up to Culpepper and says, 
‘A word with you.’ Culpepper bows and steps aside in 
this way. Jack standing about here^ (The blacksmith 
demonstrates the position of the parties with two old horse- 
shoes on the anvil.) “Jack pulls a bracelet from his pocket 
and says, * Do you know that bracelet ? ’ Culpepper says, 
'I do not,’ quite cool-like and easy. Jack says, ‘ You gav» 


The Romance of Madrono Hollow, 363 

it to my sister/ Culpepper says, still cool as you please, 
* I did not/ Jack says, ‘ You lie, G — d d — n you,’ and 
draws his derringer. Culpepper jumps forward about^here 
(reference is made to the diagram) “ and Jack fires. Nobody 
hit. It’s a mighty cur’o’s thing, gentlemen,” continued the 
blacksmith, dropping suddenly into the abstract, and lean- 
ing meditatively on his anvil, — “ it’s a mighty cur’o’s thing 
that nobody gets hit so often. You and me empties our 
revolvers sociably at each other over a little game, and the 
room full, and nobody gets hit ! That’s what gets me.” 

“ Never mind, Thompson,” chimed in Bill Masters ; 
“ there’s another and ^a better world where we shall know all 
that, and — become better shots. Go on with your story.” 

“ Well, some grabs Culpepper and some grabs Jack, and 
so separates them. Then Jack tells ’em as how he had seen 
his sister wear a bracelet which he knew was one that had 
been given to Dolores by Colonel Starbottle. That Miss 
Jo wouldn’t say where she got it, but owned up to having 
seen Culpepper that day. Then, the most cur’o’s thing of 
it yet, what does Culpepper do but rise up and takes all 
back that he said, and allows that he did give her the 
bracelet Now my opinion, gentlemen, is that he lied; it 
ain’t like that man to give a gal that he respects anything 
of off that piece, Dolores. But it’s all the same now, and 
there’s but one thing to be done.” 

The way this one thing was done belongs to the record 
of Madrono Hollow. The morning was bright and clear ; 
the air was slightly chill, but that was from the mist which 
arose along the banks of the river. As early as six o’clock 
the designated ground — a little, opening in the madrono 
g:ove — was occupied by Culpepper Starbottle, Colonel 
Starbottle, his second, and the surgeon. The Colonel was 
exalted and excited, albeit in a rather imposing, dignified 
way, and pointed out to the surgeon the excellence of the 


364 The Romance of Madrono Hollow. 

ground, which at that hour was wholly shaded from the 
sun, whose steady stare is more or less discomposing to 
your duellist. The surgeon threw himself on the grass and 
smoked his cigar. Culpepper, quiet and thoughtful, leaned 
against a tree and gazed up the river. There was a 
strange suggestion of a picnic about the group, which was 
heightened when the Colonel drew a bottle from his 
coat-tails, and, taking a preliminary draught, offered it to 
the others. “ Cocktails, sir, ” he explained with dignified 
precision. “ A gentleman, sir, should never go out without 
*em. Keeps off the morning chill I remember going out 
in ’53 with Hank Boompointer. Good ged, sir, the man 
had to put on his overcoat, and was shot in it. Fact ! ” 
But the noise of wheels drowned the Colonel’s remi- 
niscences, and a rapidly driven buggy, containing Jack 
Folinsbee, Calhoun Bungstarter, his second, and Bill Mas- 
ters, drew up on the ground. Jack Folinsbee leaped out 
gaily. “ I had the j oiliest work to get away without the gover- 
nor’s hearing,” he began, addressing the group before him 
with the greatest volubility. Calhoun Bungstarter touched 
his arm, and the young man blushed. It was his first duel 
“If you are ready, gentlemen,” said Mr. Bungstarter, 
“ we had better proceed to business. I believe it is under- 
stood that no apology will be offered or accepted. We 
may as well settle preliminaries at once, or I fear we shall 
be interrupted. There is a rumour in town that the Vigi- 
lance Committee are seeking our friends the Starbottles, 
and I believe, as their fellow-countryman, I have the honour 
to be included in their warrant” 

At this probability of interruption, that gravity which 
had hitherto been wanting fell upon the group. The 
preliminaries were soon arranged and the principals placed 
in position. Then there was a silence. 

To a spectator from the hill, impressed with the picnic 


The Romance of Madrono Hollow. 365 

suggestion, what might have been the popping of two 
champagne corks broke the stillness. 

Culpepper had fired in the air. Colonel Starbottle 
uttered a low curse. Jack Folinsbee sulkily demanded 
another shot. 

Again the parties stood opposed to each other. Again 
the word was given, and what seemed to be the simul- 
taneous report of both pistols rose upon the air. But 
after an interval of a few seconds all were surprised to see 
Culpepper slowly raise his unexploded weapon and fire it 
harmlessly above his head. Then throwing the pistol upon 
the ground, he walked to a tree and leaned silently against 
it. Jack Folinsbee flew into a paroxysm of fury. Colonel 
Starbottle raved and swore. Mr. Bungstarter was properly 
shocked at their conduct. “ Really, gentlemen, if Mr. 
Culpepper Starbottle declines another shot, I do not see 
how we can proceed.” 

But the Colonel’s blood was up, and Jack Folinsbee was 
equally implacable. A hurried consultation ensued, which 
ended by Colonel Starbottle taking his nephew’s place as 
principal. Bill Masters acting as second, vice Mr. Bung- 
starter, who declined all further connection with the affair. 

Two distinct reports rang through the Hollow. Jack 
Folinsbee dropped his smoking pistol, took a step forward, 
and then dropped heavily upon his face. 

In a moment the surgeon was at his side. The confusion 
was heightened by the trampling of hoofs, and the voice 
of the blacksmith bidding them flee for their lives before 
the coming storm. A moment more and the ground w'as 
cleared, and the surgeon, looking up, beheld only the white 
face of Culpepper bending over him. 

Can you save him ? ” 

** I cannot say. Hold up his head a moment while I 
run to the buggy.” 


366 The Romance of Madrono Hollow. 

Culpepper passed his arm tenderly around the neck of 
the insensible man. Presently the surgeon returned with 
some stimulants. 

There, that will do, Mr. Starbottle, thank you. Now 
my advice is to get away from here while you can. I’ll 
look after Folinsbee. Do you hear ? ” 

Culpepper’s arm was still round the neck of his late foe, 
but his head had dropped and fallen on the wounded 
man’s shoulder. The surgeon looked down, and catching 
sight of his face, stooped and lifted him gently in his arms. 
He opened his coat and waistcoat There was blood upon 
his shirt and a bullet-hole in his breast He had been 
shot unto death at the hrst hre 1 


( 367 ) 


Cfie poet of @)terra jFIat 

As the enterprising editor of the “Sierra Flat Record” 
stood at his case setting type for his next week’s paper, he 
could not help hearing the woodpeckers who were busy on 
the roof above his head. It occurred to him that possibly 
the birds had not yet learned to recognise in the rude struc- 
ture any improvement on Nature, and this idea pleased him 
80 much that he incorporated it in the editorial article which 
he was then doubly composing. For the editor was also 
printer of the “Record;” and although that remarkable 
journal was reputed to exert a power felt through all Cala- 
veras and a great part of Tuolumne County, strict economy 
was one of the conditions of its beneficent existence. 

Thus preoccupied, he was startled by the sudden irrup- 
tion of a small roll of manuscript, which was thrown through 
the open door and fell at his feet. He walked quickly to 
the threshold and looked down the tangled trail which led 
to the highroad. But there was nothing to suggest the 
presence of his mysterious contributor. A hare limped 
slowly away, a green-and-gold lizard paused upon a pine 
stump, the woodpeckers ceased their work. So complete 
had been his sylvan seclusion, that he found it difficult to 
connect any human agency with the act ; rather the hare 
seemed to have an inexpressibly guilty look, the wood- 
peckers to maintain a significant silence, and tlie lizard to 
be conscience-stricken into stone. 


368 The Poet of Sierra Flat, 

An examination of the manuscript, however, corrected 
this injustice to defenceless Nature. It was evidently of 
human origin, — being verse, and of exceeding bad quality. 
The editor laid it aside. As he did so he thought he saw 
a face at the window. Sallying out in some indignation, he 
penetrated the surrounding thicket in every direction, but 
his search was as fruitless as before. The poet, if it were 
he, was gone. 

A few days after this the editorial seclusion was invaded 
by voices of alternate expostulation and entreaty. Stepping 
to the door, the editor was amazed at beholding Mr. Morgan 
McCorkle, a well-known citizen of Angels, and a subscriber 
to the “ Record,” in the act of urging, partly by force and 
partly by argument, an awkward young man toward the 
building. When he had finally effected his object, and, as 
it were, safely landed his prize in a chair, Mr. McCorkle 
took off his hat, carefully wiped the narrow isthmus of 
forehead which divided his black brows from his stubby 
hair, and, with an explanatory* wave of his hand toward 
his reluctant companion, said, ‘‘A borned poet, and the 
cussedest fool you ever seed ! ” 

Accepting the editor’s smile as a recognition of the intro- 
duction, Mr. McCorkle panted and went on : “ Didn’t want 
to come I * Mister Editor don’t want to see me, Morg,’ sez 
he. ‘ Milt,’ sez I, ‘ he do ; a borned poet like you and a 
gifted genius like he oughter come together sociable ! ’ And 
I fetched him. Ah, will yer ? ” The born poet had, after 
exhibiting signs of great distress, started to run. But Mr. 
McCorkle was down upon him instantly, seizing him by his 
long linen coat, and settled him back in his chair. “ ’Tain’t 
no use stampeding. Yer ye are and yer ye stays. For yei 
a homed poet, — ef ye are as shy as a jackass-rabbit. Look 
at ’im now ! ” 

He certainly was not an attractive picture. There wa> 


The Poet of Sierra Flat 369 

hardly a notable feature in his weak face, except his eyes, 
which were moist and shy, and not unlike the animal to 
which Mr. McCorkle had compared him. It was the face 
that the editor had seen at the window. 

“Knowed him for fower year, — since he war a boy,” 
continued Mr. McCorkle in a loud whisper. “Allers the 
same, bless you ! Can jerk a rhyme as easy as turnin’ jack. 
Never had any eddication ; lived out in Missooray all his 
life. But he’s chock full o’ poetry. On’y this mornin’ sez 
I to him, — he camps along o’ me, — ‘ Milt ! ’ sez I, ‘ are 
breakfast ready ? ’ and he up and answers back quite peart 
and chipper, ‘The breakfast it is ready, and the birds is 
singing free, and it’s risin’ in the dawnin’ light is happiness 
to me ! ’ When a man,” said Mr. McCorkle, dropping his 
voice with deep solemnity, “ gets off things like them, with- 
out any call to do it, and handlin’ flapjacks over a cook- 
stove at the same time, — that man’s a borned poet.” 

There was an awkward pause. Mr. McCorkle beamed 
patronisingly on his protege. The born poet looked as if he 
were meditating another flight, — not a metaphorical one. 
The editor asked if he could do anything for them. 

“In course you can,” responded Mr. McCorkle, “that’s 
jest it. Milt, where’s that poetry ? ” 

The editor’s countenance fell as the poet produced from 
his pocket a roll of manuscript. He, however, took it 
mechanically and glanced over it. It was evidently a 
duplicate of the former mysterious contribution. 

The editor then spoke briefly but earnestly. I regret 
that I cannot recall his exact words, but it appeared that 
never before, in the history of the “ Record,” had the pres- 
sure been so great upon its columns. Matters of paramount 
importance, deeply affecting the material progress of Sierra, 
questions touching the absolute integrity of Calaveras and 
Tuolumne as social communities, were even now waiting 
VOL. II. 2 A 


370 


The Poet of Sierra Flat, 

expression. Weeks, nay, months, must elapse before that 
pressure would be removed, and the “Record” could 
grapple with any but the sternest of topics. Again, the 
editor had noticed with pain the absolute decline of poetry 
in the foothills of the Sierras. Even the works of Byron 
and Moore attracted no attention in Dutch Flat, and a pre- 
judice seemed to exist against Tennyson in Grass Valley. 
But the editor was not without hope for the future. In the 
course of four or five years, when the country was settled — 

“ What would be the cost to print this yer ? ” interrupted 
Mr. McCorkle, quietly. 

“ About fifty dollars, as an advertisement,” responded the 
editor with cheerful alacrity. 

Mr. McCorkle placed the sum in the editor’s hand. 
“Yer see thet’s what I sez to Milt. ‘Milt,’ sez I, ‘pay as 
you go, for you are a horned poet. Hevin’ no call to write, 
but doin’ it free and spontaneous like, in course you pays. 
Thet’s why Mr. Editor never printed your poetry.’” 

“ What name shall I put to it ? ” asked the editor. 

“ Milton.” 

It was the first word that the born poet had spoken during 
the interview, and his voice was so very sweet and musical 
that the editor looked at him curiously, and wondered if he 
had a sister. 

“Milton I is that all?” 

“Thet’s his furst name,” exclaimed Mr. McCorkle. 

The editor here suggested that as there had been another 
poet of that name — 

“ Milt might be took for him ! Thet’s. bad,” reflected 
Mr. McCorkle with simple gravity. “Well, put down his 
full name, — Milton Chubbuck.” 

The editor made a note of the fact “ I’ll set it up now," 
he said. This was also a hint that the interview was ended. 
The poet and patron, arm in arm, drew towards the doof 


The Poet of Sierra Flat. yj\ 

*In next week’s paper,” said the editor smilingly, in answei 
to the childlike look of inquiry in the eyes of the poet, and 
in another moment they were gone. 

The editor was as good as his word. He straightway 
betook himself to his case, and, unrolling the manuscript, 
began his task. The woodpeckers on the roof recommenced 
theirs, and in a few moments the former sylvan seclusion 
was restored. There was no sound in the barren, barn-like 
room but the birds above, and below the click of the com- 
posing-rule as the editor marshalled the types into lines in 
his stick, and arrayed them in solid column on the galley. 
Whatever might have been his opinion of the copy before 
him, there was no indication of it in his face, which wore 
the stolid indifference of his craft. Perhaps this was un- 
fortunate, for as the day wore on and the level ra^-a of the 
sun began to pierce the adjacent thicket, they sought out 
and discovered an anxious ambushed figure drawn up 
beside the editor’s window, — a figure that had sat there 
motionless for hours. Within, the editor worked on as 
steadily and impassively as Fate. And without, the born 
poet of Sierra Flat sat and watched him as waiting its 
decree. 

The effect of the poem on Sierra Flat was remarkable 
and unprecedented. The absolute vileness of its doggerel, 
the gratuitous imbecility of its thought, and above all the 
crowning audacity of the fact that it was the work of a 
citizen and published in the county paper, brought it in- 
stantly into popularity. For many months Calaveras had 
languished for a sensation; since the last Vigilance Com- 
mittee nothing had transpired to dispel the listless ennui 
begotten of stagnant business and growing civilisation. In 
more prosperous moments the office of the “Record” 
would have been simply gutted and the editor deported; 


572 The Poet of Sierra Flat, 

it present the paper was in such demand that the edition 
was speedily exhausted. In brief, the poem of Mr. Milton 
Chubbuck came like a special providence to Sierra Flat 
It was read by camp-fires, in lonely cabins, in flaring bar- 
rooms and noisy saloons, and declaimed from the boxes of 
stage-coaches. It was sung in Poker Flat with the addition 
of a local chorus, and danced as an unhallowed rhythmic 
dance by the Pyrrhic phalanx of One Horse Gulch, known 
as “The Festive Stags of Calaveras.” Some unhappy 
ambiguities of expression gave rise to many new readingSj 
notes, and commentaries, which, I regret to state, were 
more often marked by ingenuity than delicacy of thought 
or expression. 

Never before did poet acquire such sudden local repu- 
tation. From the seclusion of McCorkle’s cabin and the 
obscurity of culinary labours he was haled forth into the 
glowing sunshine of Fame. The name of Chubbuck was 
written in letters of chalk on unpainted walls arid carved 
with a pick on the sides of tunnels. A drink known vari- 
ously as “The Chubbuck Tranquilliser” or “The Chubbuck 
Exalter” was dispensed at the bars. For some weeks a 
rude design for a Chubbuck statue, made up of illustrations 
from circus and melodeon posters, representing the genius 
of Calaveras in brief skirts on a flying steed in the act of 
crowning the poet Chubbuck, was visible at Keeler’s Ferry. 
The poet himself was overborne with invitations to drink 
and extravagant congratulations. The meeting between 
Colonel Starbottle of Siskyion and Chubbuck, as previously 
arranged by our “ Boston,” late of Rearing Camp, is said 
to have been indescribably affecting. The Colonel embraced 
him unsteadily. “ I could not return to my constituents at 
Siskyion, sir, if this hand, which has grasped that of the 
gifted Prentice and the lamented Poe, should not^have 
been honoured by the touch of the godlike Chubbuck 


The Poet of Sierra Flat, 373 

Gentlemen, American literature is looking up. Thank you 1 
I will take sugar in mine.” It was “ Boston ” who indited 
letters of congratulations from H. W. Longfellow, Tennyson, 
and Browning to Mr. Chubbuck, deposited them in the 
Sierra Flat post-office, and obligingly consented to dictate 
the replies. 

The simple faith and unaffected delight with which these 
manifestations were received by the poet and his patron 
might have touched the hearts of these grim masters of 
irony, but for the sudden and equal development in both 
of the vanity of weak natures. Mr. McCorkle basked in 
che popularity of his protege, and became alternately super- 
cilious or patronising toward the dwellers of Sierra Flat; 
while the poet, with hair carefully oiled and curled, and 
bedecked with cheap jewellery and flaunting neck-hand- 
kerchief, paraded himself before the single hotel. As may 
be imagined, this new disclosure of weakness afforded 
intense satisfaction to Sierra Flat, gave another lease of 
popularity to the poet, and suggested another idea to the 
facetious “Boston.” 

At that time a young lady popularly and professionally 
known as the “ California Pet ” was performing to enthusi- 
astic audiences in the interior. Her speciality lay in the 
personation of youthful masculine character ; as a gamin of 
the street she was irresistible, as a negro-dancer she carried 
the honest miner’s heart by storm. A saucy, pretty brunette, 
she had preserved a wonderful moral reputation even under 
the Jove-like advances of showers of gold that greeted her 
appearance on the stage at Sierra Flat. A prominent and 
delighted member of that audience was Milton Chubbuck. 
He attended every night. Every day he lingered at the 
door of the Union Hotel for a glimpse of the “California 
Pet35 It was not long before he received a note from her, 
•-in “ Boston’s ”■ most popular and approved female hand, 


374 


The Poet of Sierra Flat, 

—acknowledging his admiration. It was not long before 
“ Boston ” was called upon to indite a suitable reply. At 
last, in furtherance of his facetious design, it became neces- 
sary for “ Boston ” to call upon the young actress herself 
and secure her personal participation. To her he unfolded 
a plan, the successful carrying out of which he felt would 
secure his fame to posterity as a practical humorist. The 
“California Pet’s” black eyes sparkled approvingly and 
mischievously. She only stipulated that she should see the 
man first, — a concession to her feminine weakness which 
years of dancing Juba and wearing trousers and boots had 
not wholly eradicated from her wilful breast. By all means, 
it should be done. And the interview was arranged for the 
next week. 

It must not be supposed that during this interval of 
popularity Mr. Chubbuck had been unmindful of his poetic 
qualities. A certain portion of each day he was absent 
from town, — “a communin’ with natur’,” as Mr. McCorkle 
expressed it, — and actually wandering in the mountain 
trails, or lying on his back under the trees, or gathering 
fragrant herbs and the bright-coloured berries of the Mar- 
zanita. These and his company he generally brought to 
the editor’s otfice late in the afternoon, often to that enter- 
prising journalist’s infinite weariness. Quiet and uncom- 
municative, he would sit there paliently watching him at his 
work until the hour for closing the office arrived, when he 
would as quietly depart There was something so humble 
and unobtrusive in these visits, that the editor could not 
find it in his heart to deny them, and accepting them, like 
the woodpeckers, as a part of his sylvan surroundings, often 
forgot even his presence. Once or twice, moved by some 
beauty of expression in the moist, shy eyes, he felt^ike 
seriously admonishing his visitor of his idle folly ; b®PHa 
{lance falling upon the oiled hair and the gorgeous ne(^ie 


The Poet of Sierra Flat. 375 

he invariably thought better of it. The case was evidently 
hopeless. 

The interview between Mr. Chubbuck and the “Cali- 
fornia Pet” took place in a private room of the Union 
Hotel ; propriety being respected by the presence of that 
arch-humorist, “Boston.” To this gentleman we are in« 
debted for the only true account of the meeting. Howeves 
reticent Mr. Chubbuck might have been in the presence of 
of his own sex, toward the fairer portion of humanity he 
was, like most poets, exceedingly voluble. Accustomed as 
the “California Pet” had been to excessive compliment, 
she was fairly embarrassed by the extravagant praises of her 
visitor. Her personation of boy characters, her dancing of 
the “champion jig,” were particularly dwelt upon with 
fervid but unmistakable admiration. At last, recovering 
her audacity and emboldened by the presence of “ Boston,” 
the “ California Pet ” electrified her hearers by demanding, 
half jestingly, half viciously, if it were as a boy or a girl that 
she was the subject of his flattering admiration. 

“That knocked him out o’ time,” said the delighted 
“Boston,” in his subsequent account of the interview. 
“ But do you believe the d — d fool actually asked her to 
take him with her ; wanted to engage in the company. ” 

The plan, as briefly unfolded by “ Boston,” was to prevail 
upon Mr. Chubbuck to make his appearance in costume 
(already designed and prepared by the inventor) before a 
Sierra Flat audience, and recite an original poem at the 
Hall immediately on the conclusion of the “California 
Pet’s ” performance. At a given signal the audience were 
to rise and deliver a volley of unsavoury articles (previously 
provided by the originator of the scheme); then a select 
few were to rush on the stage, seize the poet, and, after 
inarching him m triumphal procession through the town, 
wfre to deposit him beyond its uttermost limits, with strict 


376 The Poet of Sierra Flat 

injunctions never to enter it again. To the first part of the 
plan the poet was committed ; for the latter portion it was 
!jasy enough to find participants. 

The eventful night came, and with it an audience that 
packed the long narrow room with one dense mass of 
human beings. The “ California Pet ” never had been so 
joyous, so reckless, so fascinating and audacious before. 
But the applause was tame and weak compared to the 
ironical outburst that greeted the second rising of the 
curtain and the entrance of the born poet of Sierra Flat 
Then there was a hush of expectancy, and the poet stepped 
to the footlights and stood with his manuscript in his 
hand. 

His face was deadly pale. Either there was some sug- 
gestion of his fate in the faces of his audience, or some 
mysterious instinct told him of his danger. He attempted 
to speak, but faltered, tottered, and staggered to the wings. 

Fearful of losing his prey, “ Boston ” gave the signal and 
leaped upon the stage. But at the same moment a light 
figure darted from behind the scenes, and delivering a kick 
that sent the discomfited humorist back among the musi- 
cians, cut a pigeon-wing, executed a double-shuffle, and 
then advancing to the footlights with that inimitable look, 
that audacious swagger and utter abandon which had so 
thrilled and fascinated them a moment before, uttered the 
characteristic speech, “Wot are you goin’ to hit a man 
fur when he’s down, s-a-a-y ? ” 

The look, the drawl, the action, the readiness, and above 
all the downriglit courage of the little woman, had its effect. 
A roar of sympathetic applause followed the act. “ Cut 
and run while you can,” she whispered hurriedly over her 
one shoulder, without altering the other’s attitude of pert 
and saucy defiance toward the audience. But even as she 
•poke, the poet tottered and sank fainting upon the stage. 


The Poet of Sierra Flat, 377 

Then she threw a despairing whisper behind the scenes, 
“Ring down the curtain.” 

There was a slight movement of opposition in the audi- 
ence, but among them rose the burly shoulders of Yuba 
Bill, the tall, erect figure of Henry York of Sandy Bar, and 
the colourless, determined face of John Oakhurst The 
curtain came down. 

Behind it knelt the “ California Pet ” beside the prostrate 
poet. “ Bring me some water. Run for a doctor. Stop ! I 
Clear out, all of you ! ” 

She had unloosed the gaudy cravat and opened the shirt- 
collar of the insensible figure before her. Then she burst 
into an hysterical laugh. 

“ Manuela!” 

Her tiring-woman, a Mexican half-breed, came toward 
her. 

“ Help me with him to my dressing-room, quick ; then 
stand outside and wait If any one questions you, tell them 
he’s gone. Do you hear ? He’s gone.” 

The old woman did as she was bade. In a few moments 
the audience had departed. Before morning so also had 
the “California Pet,” Manuela, and the poet of Sierra 
Flat 

But, alas ! with them also had departed the fair fame of 
the “California Pet” Only a few, and these, it is to be 
feared, of not the best moral character themselves, still had 
faith in the stainless honour of their favourite actress. “ It 
was a mighty foolish thing to do, but it’ll all come out right 
yet” On the other hand, a majority gave her full credit 
and approbation for her undoubted pluck and gallantry, 
but deplored that she should have thrown it away upon a 
worthless object To elect for a lover the despised and 
ridiculed vagrant of Sierra Flat, who had not even the 
manliness to stand up in his own defence, was not only 


378 The Poet of Sierra Flat, 

evidence of inherent moral depravity, but was an insult to 
the community. Colonel Starbottle saw in it only another 
instance of extreme frailty of the sex ; he had known similar 
cases; and remembered distinctly, sir, how a well known 
Philadelphia heiress, one of the finest women that ever 
rode in her kerridge, that, gad, sir ! had thrown over a 
Southern member of Congress to consort with a d — d nigger. 
The Colonel had also noticed a singular look in the dog’s 
eye which he did not entirely fancy. He would not say 

anything against the lady, sir, but he had noticed And 

here haply the Colonel became so mysterious and darkly 
confidential as to be unintelligible and inaudible to the 
bystanders. 

A few days after the disappearance of Mr. Chubbuck a 
singular report reached Sierra Flat, and it was noticed that 
“ Boston,” who since the failure of his elaborate joke had 
been even more depressed in spirits than is habitual with 
great humorists, suddenly found that his presence was 
required, in San Francisco. But as yet nothing but the 
vaguest surmises were afloat, and nothing definite was 
known. 

It was a pleasant afternoon when the editor of the 
“ Sierra Flat Record ” looked up from his case and beheld 
the figure of Mr. Morgan McCorkle standing in the door- 
way. There was a distressed look on the face of that 
worthy gentleman that at once enlisted the editor’s sympa- 
thising attention. He held an open letter in his hand as 
he advanced toward the middle of the room. 

“ As a man as has allers borne a fair reputation,” began 
Mr. McCorkle slowly, “ I should like, if so be as I could, 
Mister Editor, to make a correction in the columns of your 
v-alooable paper.” 

Mr. Editor begged him to proceed. 

“Ye may not disremember that about a month ago I 


The Poet of Sierra Flat. 379 

fetched here what so be as we’ll call a young man whose 
name might be as it were Milton — Milton Chubbuck.” 

Mr* Editor remembered perfectly. 

“Thet same party I’d knowed better nor fower year^ 
two on ’em campin’ out together. Not that I’d known him 
all the time, fur he war shy and strange at spells, and had 
odd ways that I took war nat’ral to a borned poet Ye 
may remember that I said he was a borned poet ? ” 

The editor distinctly did. 

“ I picked this same party up in St Jo., taking a fancy to 
his face, and kinder calklating he’d runned away from home ; 
for I’m a married man, Mr. Editor, and hev children of my 
own, — and thinkin’ belike he was a borned poet” 

“ Well ? ” said the editor. 

“And as I said before, I should like now to make a 
correction in the columns of your valooable paper.” 

“ What correction ? ” asked the editor. 

“ I said, ef you remember my words, as how he was a 
borned poet.” 

“ Yes.” 

“From statements in this yer letter it seems as how I 
war wrong.” 

“Well?” 

“ She war a woman," 


( 38o ) 


Cfie PtfncesJjs OBob anb fjer jFrfcnbs. 

She was a Klamath Indian. Her title was, I think, a com* 
promise between her claim as daughter of a chief and grati- 
tude to her earliest white protector, whose name, after the 
Indian fashion, she had adopted. “ Bob ” Walker had 
taken her from the breast of her dead mother at a time 
when the sincere volunteer soldiery of the California 
frontier were impressed with the belief that extermination 
was the manifest destiny of the Indian race. He had with 
difficulty restrained the noble zeal of his compatriots long 
enough to convince them that the exemption of one Indian 
baby would not invalidate this theory. And he took her 
to his home, — a pastoral clearing on the banks of the 
Salmon River, — where she was cared for after a frontier 
fashion. 

Before she was nine years old, she had exhausted the 
tcant kindliness of the thin, overworked Mrs. Walker. As 
a playfellow of the young Walkers she was unreliable ; as 
a nurse for the baby she was inefficient. She lost the 
former in the trackless depths of a redwood forest ; she 
basely abandoned the latter in an extemporised cradle, 
hanging like a chrysalis to a convenient bough. She lied 
and she stole, — two unpardonable sins in a frontier com- 
munity, where truth was a necessity and provisions were 
the only property. Worse than this, the outskirts of the 
clearing were sometimes haunted by blanketed tatterdema 


The Princess Bob and her Friends, 381 

lions with whom she had mysterious confidences. Mr. 
Walker more than once regretted his indiscreet humanity ; 
but she presently relieved him of responsibility, and pos- 
sibly of blood-guiltiness, by disappearing entirely. 

When she reappeared, it was at the adjacent village of 
Logport, in the capacity of housemaid to a trader’s wife, 
who, joining some little culture to considerable conscien- 
tiousness, attempted to instruct her charge. But the 
Princess proved an unsatisfactory pupil to even so liberal 
a teacher. She accepted the alphabet with great good- 
humour, but always as a pleasing and recurring novelty, in 
which all interest expired at the completion of each lesson. 
She found a thousand uses for her books and writing 
materials other than those known to civilised children. 
She made a curious necklace of bits of slate pencil \ she 
constructed a miniature canoe from the pasteboard covers 
of her primer; she bent her pens into fish-hooks, and 
tatooed the faces of her younger companions with blue ink. 
Religious instruction she received as good-humouredly, and 
learned to pronounce the name of the Deity with a cheer- 
ful familiarity that shocked her preceptress. Nor could 
her reverence be reached through analogy; she knew 
nothing of the Great Spirit, and professed entire ignorance 
of the Happy Hunting Grounds. Yet she attended divine 
service regularly, and as regularly asked for a hymn-book ; 
and it was only through the discovery that she had collected 
twenty-five of these volumes and had hidden them behind 
the woodpile, that her connection with the First Baptist 
Church of Logport ceased. She would occasionally 
abandon these civilised and Christian privileges, and dis- 
appear from her home, returning after several days of 
absence with an odour of bark and fish, and a peace-offer- 
ing to her mistress in the shape of vension or game. 

To add to her troubles, she was new fourteen, and, accord 


382 The Princess Bob and her Friends. 

ing to the laws of her race, a woman. I do not think the 
most romantic fancy would have called her pretty. Her 
complexion defied most of those ambiguous similes through 
which poets unconsciously apologise for any deviation from 
the Caucasian standard. It was not wine nor amber 
coloured ; if anything, it was smoky. Her face was 
tatooed with red and white lines on one cheek, as if a fine- 
toothed comb had been drawn from cheekbone to jaw, 
and, but for the good-humour that beamed from her small 
berry-like eyes and shone in her white teeth, would have 
been repulsive. She was short and stout In her scant 
drapery and unrestrained freedom she was hardly statu- 
esque, and her more unstudied attitudes were marred by a 
simian habit of softly scratching her left ankle with the toes 
of her right foot in moments of contemplation. 

I think I have already shown enough to indicate the 
incongruity of her existence with even the low standard of 
civilisation that obtained at Logport in the year i860. It 
needed but one more fact to prove the far-sighted political 
sagacity and prophetic ethics of those sincere advocates of 
extermination, to whose virtues I have done but scant 
justice in the beginning of this article. This fact was 
presently furnished by the Princess. After one of her 
periodical disappearances, — ^this time unusually prolonged, 
— she astonished Logport by returning with a half-breed 
baby of a week old in her arms. That night a meeting of 
the hard-featured serious matrons of Logport was held at 
Mrs. Brown s. The immediate banishment of the Princess 
was demanded. Soft-hearted Mrs. Brown endeavoured 
fainly to get a mitigation or suspension of the sentence. 
But, as on a former occasion, the Princess took matters 
into her own hands. A few mornings afterwards, a wicker 
cradle containing an Indian baby was found hanging or 
the handle of the door of the First Baptist Church. It wai 


The Princess Bob and her Friends. 383 

the Parthian arrow of the flying Princess. From that daj 
Logport knew her no more. 

It had been a bright clear day on the upland, so clear 
that the ramparts of Fort Jackson and the flagstaff were 
plainly visible twelve miles away from the long curving 
peninsula that stretched a bared white arm around the 
peaceful waters of Logport Bay. It had been a clear day 
upon the Sea-shore, albeit the air was filled with the flying 
spume and shifting sand of a straggling beach whose low 
dunes were dragged down by the long surges of the Pacific 
and thrown up again by the tumultuous trade-winds. But 
the sun had gone down in a bank of fleecy fog that was be- 
ginning to roll in upon the beach. Gradually the headland 
at the entrance of the harbour and the lighthouse disap- 
peared, then the willow fringe that marked the line of 
Salmon River vanished, and the ocean was gone. A few 
sails still gleamed on the waters of the bay ; but the ad- 
vancing fog wiped them out one by one, crept across the 
steel-blue expanse, swallowed up the white mills and single 
spire of Logport, and, joining with reinforcements from the 
marshes, moved solemnly upon the hills. Ten minutes 
more and the landscape was utterly blotted out; simul- 
taneously the wind died away and a death-like silence stole 
over sea and shore. The faint clang, high ^ overhead, of 
unseen brent, the nearer call of invisible plover, the lap and 
wash of undistinguishable waters, and the monotonous roll 
of the vanished ocean, were the only sounds. As night 
deepened, the far-off booming of the fog-bell on the head- 
^nd at intervals stirred the thick air. 

Hard by the shore of the bay, and half hidden by a 
drifting sandhill, stood a low nondescript structure, to 
whose composition sea and shore had equally contributed, 
(t was built partly of logs and partly of driftwood and tarred 


3^4 The Princess Boh and her Friends. 

canvas. Joined to one end of the nciain building — the ordi- 
nary log-cabin of the settler — was the half-round pilot-house 
of some wrecked steamer, while the other gable terminated 
in half of a broken wlialeboat. Nailed against tl;e boat 
were the dried skins of wild animals, and scattered about 
lay the flotsam and jetsam of many years’ gathering, — 
bamboo crates, casks, hatches, blocks, oars, boxes, part of 
a whale’s vertebrae, and the blades of swordfish. Drawn 
up on the beach of a little cove before the house lay a canoe. 
As the night thickened and the fog grew more dense, these 
details grew imperceptible, and only the windows of the 
pilot-house, lit up by a roaring fire within the hut, gleamed 
redly through the mist. 

By this fire, beneath a ship’s lamp that swung from the 
roof, two figures were seated, a man and a woman. The 
man, broad-shouldered and heavily bearded, stretched his 
listless powerful length beyond a broken bamboo chair 
with his eyes fixed on the fire. The woman crouched cross- 
legged upon the broad earthen hearth, with her eyes blink- 
ingly fixed on her companion. They were small, black, 
round, berry-like eyes, and as the firelight shone upon her 
smoky face, with its one striped cheek of gorgeous brilliancy, 
it was plainly the Princess Bob and no other. 

Not a word was spokea They had been sitting thus for 
more than an hour, and there was about their attitude a 
suggestion that silence was habitual. Once or twice the 
man rose and walked up and down the narrow room, or 
gazed absently from the windows of the pilot-house, but 
never by look or sign betrayed the slightest consciousness 
of his companion. At such times the Princess from her 
nest by the fire followed him with eyes of canine expectancy 
and wistfulness. But he would as inevitably return to hia 
contemplation of the fire, and the Princess to her blinking 
watchfulness of his face. 


The Princess Bob and her Friends, 385 

They had sat there silent and undisturbed for many an 
evening in fair weather and foul. They had spent many a 
Jay in sunshine and storm, gathering the unclaimed spoil 
of sea ^nd shore. They had kept these mute relations, 
varied only by the incidents of the hunt or meagre house- 
hold duties, for three years, ever since the man, wandering 
moodily over the lonely sands, had fallen upon the half- 
starved woman lying in the little hollow where she had 
crawled to die. It had seemed as if they would never be 
disturbed, until now, when the Princess started, and, with 
the instinct of her race, bent her ear to the ground. 

The wind had risen and was rattling the tarred canvas. 
But in another moment there plainly came from without 
the hut the sound of voices. Then followed a rap at the 
door ; then another rap ; and then, before they could rise 
to their feet, the door was flung briskly open. 

“I beg your pardon,” said a pleasant but somewhat de- 
cided contralto voice, “but I don’t think you heard me 
knock. Ah ! I see you did not. May I come in ? ” 

There was no reply. Had the battered figurehead of 
the Goddess of Liberty, which lay deeply embedded in 
‘■he sand on the beach, suddenly appeared at the door 
demanding admittance, the occupants of the cabin could 
not have been more speechlessly and hopelessly astonished 
than at the form which stood in the open doorway. 

It was that of a slim, shapely, elegantly dressed young 
woman. A scarlet-lined silken hood was half thrown back 
from the shining mass of the black hair that covered her 
small head ; from her pretty shoulders dropped a fur cloak, 
only restrained by a cord and tassel in her small gloved 
hand. Around her full throat was a double necklace of 
large white beads, that by some cunning feminine trick 
relieved with its infantile suggestion the strong decision of 
her lower face. 

VOL. II. 


2 B 


386 The Princess Boh and her Friends. 

“ Did you say yes ? Ah ! thank you. We may come 
In, Barker.” (Here a shadow in a blue army overcoat fol- 
lowed her into the cabin, touched its cap respectfully, and 
then stood silent and erect against the wall.) “ Don’t 
disturb yourself in the least, I beg. What a distressingly 
unpleasant night ! Is this your usual climate ? ” 

Half graciously, half absently overlooking the still 
embarrassed silence of the group, she went on : “ We 
started from the fort over three hours ago, — three hours 
ago, wasn’t it, Barker?” — (the erect Barker touched his 
cap) — “ to go to Captain Emmons’s quarters on Indian 
Island, — I think you call it Indian Island, don’t you?” — 
(she was appealing to the awe-stricken Princess) — “and 
We got into the fog and lost our way ; that is. Barker lost 
his way ” — (Barker touched his cap deprecatingly) — “ and 
goodness knows where we didn’t wander to until we 
mistook your light for the lighthouse and pulled up here. 
No, no, pray keep your seat, do ! Really, I must insist.” 

Nothing could exceed the languid grace of the latter part 
of this speech, — nothing except the easy unconsciousness 
with which she glided by the offered chair of her stammer- 
ing, embarrassed host, and stood beside the open hearth. 

“ Barker will tell you,” she continued, warming her feet by 
the fire, “that I am Miss Portfire, daughter of Major Port- 
fire, commanding the post. Ah, excuse me, child ! ” (She 
had accidentally trodden upon the bare yellow toes of the 
Princess.) “Really, I did not know you were there. I am 
very near-sighted.” (In confirmation of her statement, she put 
to her eyes a dainty double eyeglass that dangled from her 
neck.) “ It’s a shocking thing to be near-sighted, isn’t it?’ 

If the shamefaced uneasy man to whom this remark was 
Bcdressed could have found words to utter the thought 
that even in his confusion struggled uppermost in his mind, 
he would, looking at the bold, dark eyes that questioned 


The Princess Bob and her Friends. 387 

him, have denied the fact. But he only stammered, “Yes.” 
The next moment, however, Miss Portfire had apparently 
forgotten him and was examining the Princess through her 
glass. 

“ And what, is your name, child ? ” 

The Princess, beatified by the eyes and eyeglass, showed 
all her white teeth at once, and softly scratched her leg. 

“Bob.” 

“ Bob ? What a singular name ! ” 

Miss Portfire’s host here hastened to explain the origin 
of the Princess’s title. 

“ Then you are Bob.” (Eyeglass.) 

“No, my name is Grey, — John Grey.” And he actually 
achieved a bow where awkwardness was rather the air of 
imperfectly recalling a forgotten habit. 

“Grey? — ah ! let me see. Yes, certainly. You are Mr. 
Grey, the recluse, the hermit, the philosopher, and all that 
sort of thing. Why, certainly. Dr. Jones, our surgeon, has 
told me all about you. Dear me, how interesting a ren- 
contre! Lived all alone here for seven — was it seven 
years? — yes, I remember now. Existed quite au naturel^ 
one might say. How odd ! Not that I know anything 
about that sort of thing, you know. I’ve lived always 
among people, and am really quite a stranger, I assure you. 
But honestly, Mr. — I beg your pardon — Mr. Grey, how do 
/ou like it ? ” 

She had juietly taken his chair and thrown her cloak 
and hood over its back, and was now thoughtfully removing 
her gloves. Whatever were the arguments, — and they were 
doubtless many and profound, — whatever the experience, — 
and it was doubtless hard and satisfying enough, — by which 
this unfortunate man had justified his life for the last seven 
years, somehow they suddenly became trivial and tenibly 
ridiculous before this simple but practical questioa 


388 The Princess Bob and her Friends^ 

“ Well, you shall tell me all about it after you have given 
me something to eat. We will have time enough ; Barker 
cannot find his way back in this fog to-night. Now don’t 
put yourselves to any trouble on my account Barker will 
assist” 

Barker came forward. Glad to escape the scrutiny of his 
guest, the hermit gave a few rapid directions to the Princess 
in her native tongue, and disappeared in the shed. Left a 
moment alone, Miss Portfire took a quick, halfaudible, 
feminine inventory of the cabin. “ Books, guns, skins, one 
chair, one bed, no pictures, and no looking-glass ! ” She 
took a book from the swinging shelf and resumed her seat 
by the fire as the Princess re-entered with fresh fuel. But 
while kneeling on the hearth the Princess chanced to look 
up and met Miss Portfire’s dark eyes over the edge of her 
book. 

“Bob!” 

The Princess showed her teeth 

“Listen ! Would you like to have fine clothes, rings, and 
beads like these, to have your hair nicely combed and put 
up so ? Would you ? ” 

The Princess nodded violently. 

“ Would you like to . live with me and have them ? 
Answer quickly. Don’t look round for him. Speak for 
yourself. Would you? Hush 1 never mind now.” 

The hermit re-entered, and the Princess, blinking, re- 
treated into the shadow of the whale ooat shed, from which 
she did not emerge even when the homely repast of cold 
venison, ship-biscuit, and tea was served. Miss Portfire 
noticed her absence. “You really must not let me interfere 
with your usual simple ways. Do you know this is exceed- 
ingly interesting to me, so pastoral and patriarchal, and all 
that sort of thing. I must insist upon the Princess coming 
back ; really I must ” 


The Princess Bob and her Friends. 389 

But the Princess was not to be found in the shed, and 
Miss Portfire, who the next minute seemed to have forgotten 
all about her, took her place in the single chair before an 
extemporised table. Barker stood behind her, and the 
hermit leaned against the fireplace. Miss Portfire’s appetite 
did not come up to her protestations. For the first time 
in seven years it occurred to the hermit that his ordinary 
victual might be improved. He stammered out something 
to that effect 

“I have eaten better and worse,” said Miss Portfire, 
quietly. 

“But I thought you — that is, you said” 

“ I spent a year in the hospitals, when father was on the 
Potomac,” returned Miss Portfire, composedly. After a 
pause she continued: “You remember after the second 

Bull Run But, dear me ! I beg your pardon ; of course, 

you know nothing about the war and all that sort of thing, 
and don’t care.” (She put up her eyeglass and quietly 
surveyed his broad, muscular figure against the chimney.) 
“ Or, perhaps, your prejudices — But then, as a hermit you 
know you have no politics, of course. Please don’t let me 
bore you.” 

To have been strictly consistent, the hermit should have 
exhibited no interest in this topic. Perhaps it was owing to 
some quality in the narrator, but he was constrained to beg 
her to continue in such phrases as his unfamiliar lips could 
command. So that, little by little, Miss Portfire yielded up 
incident and personal observation of the contest then rag- 
ing; with the same half-abstracted, half-unconcerned air 
that seemed habitual to her, she told the stories of privation, 
of suffering, of endurance, and of sacrifice. With the same 
assumption of timid deference that concealed her great self- 
control, she talked of principles and rights. Apparently 
without enthusiasm and without effort, of which his morbid 


390 The Princess Bob and her Friends, 

nature would have been suspicious, she sang the great 
American Iliad in a way that stirred the depths of her 
solitary auditor to its massive foundations. Then she 
stopped and asked quietly, “ Where is Bob ? ” 

The hermit started. He would look for her. But Bob, 
for some reason, was not forthcoming. Search was made 
within and without the hut, but in vain. For the first time 
that evening Miss Portfire showed some anxiety. “Go,” 
she said to Barker, “ and find her. She must be found ; 
stay, give me your overcoat, Pll go myself.” She threw the 
overcoat over her shoulders and stepped out into the night 
In the thick veil of fog that seemed suddenly to inwrap her, 
she stood for a moment irresolute, and then walked toward 
the beach, guided by the low wash of waters on the sand. 
She had not taken many steps before she stumbled over 
some dark, crouching object. Reaching down her hand 
she felt the coarse, wiry mane of the Princess, 

“Bob!” 

There was no reply. 

“ Bob. Pve been looking for you, come.” 

“Go ’way.” 

“Nonsense, Bob. I want you to stay with me to-night, 
come.” 

“ Injin squaw no good for waugee woman. Go ’way.” 

“ Listen, Bob. You are daughter of a chief : so am I. 
Your father had many warriors : so has mine. It is good 
that you stay with me. Come.” 

The Princess chuckled and suffered herself to be lifted 
up. A few moments later and they re-entered the hut, 
hand in hand. 

With the first red streaks of dawn the next day the erect 
Barker touched his cap at the door of the hut. Beside him 
stood the hermit, also just risen from his blanketed nest in 
the sand. Forth from the hut, fresh as the morning air 


The Princess Bob and her Friends, 391 

•tepped Miss Portfire, leading the Princess by the hand. 
Hand in hand also they walked to the shore, and when the 
Princess had been safely bestowed in the stern sheets, Miss 
Portfire turned and held out her own to her late host. 

I shall take the best of care of her, of course. You 
will come and see her often, I should ask you to come 
and see me, but you are a hermit, you know, and all that 
sort of thing. But if it’s the correct anchorite thing, and 
can be done, my father will be glad to requite you for this 
night’s hospitality. But don’t do anything on my account 
that interferes with your simple habits. Good bye.” 

She handed him a card, which he took mechanically. 

‘‘ Good-bye.” 

The sail was hoisted, and the boat shoved off. As the 
fresh morning breeze caught the white canvas it seemed to 
bow a parting salutation. There was a rosy flush of promise 
on the water, and as the light craft darted forward toward 
the ascending sun, it seemed for a moment uplifted in its 
glory. 

Miss Portfire kept her word. If thoughtful care and 
intelligent kindness could regenerate the Princess, her 
future was secure. And it really seemed as if she were for 
the first time inclined to heed the lessons of civilisation, 
and profit by her new condition. An agreeable change was 
first noticed in her appearance. Her lawless hair was 
caught in a net, and no longer strayed over her low fore- 
head. Her unstable bust was stayed and upheld by French 
corsets; her plantigrade shuffle was limited by heeled 
boots. Her dresses were neat and clean, and she wore a 
double necklace of glass beads. With this physical im- 
provement there also seemed some moral awakening. She 
CO longer stole nor lied. With the possession of personal 
property came a respect for that of others. With increased 


392 ? The Princess Bob and her Friends. 

dependence on the word of those about her came a thought* 
ful consideration of her own. Intellectually she was still 
feeble, although she grappled sturdily with the simple 
lessons which Miss Portfire set before her. But her zeal 
and simple vanity outran her discretion, and she would 
often sit for hours with an open book before her, which she 
could not read. She was a favourite with the officers at 
the fort, from the Major, who shared his daughter’s pre- 
judices and often yielded to her powerful self-will, to the 
subalterns, who liked her none the less that their natural 
enemies, the frontier volunteers, had declared war against 
her helpless sisterhood. The only restraint put upon her 
was the limitation of her liberty to the enclosure of the fort 
and parade ; and only once did she break this parole, and 
was stopped by the sentry as she stepped into a boat at the 
landing. 

The recluse did not avail himself of Miss Portfire’s invita- 
tion. But after the departure of the Princess he spent less 
of his time in the hut, and was more frequently seen in the 
distant marshes of Eel River and on the upland hills. A 
feverish restlessness, quite opposed to his usual phlegm, led 
him into singular freaks strangely inconsistent with his 
usual habits and reputation. The purser of the occasional 
steamer which stopped at Logport with the mails reported 
to have been boarded, just inside the bar, by a strange, 
bearded man, who asked for a newspaper containing the 
last war telegrams. He tore his red shirt into narrow strips, 
and spent two days with his needle over the pieces and the 
tattered remnant of his only white garment; and a few 
days afterward the fishermen on the bay were surprised to 
see what, on nearer approach, proved to be a rude imita- 
tion of the national flag floating from a spar above the hut. 

One evening, as the fog began to drift over the sand-hills, 
the recluse sat alone in his hut The fire was dying ud 


The Princess Bob and her Friends, 393 

heeded on the hearth, for he had been sitting there for a 
long time, completely absorbed in the blurred pages of an 
old newspaper. Presently he arose, and, refolding it, — an 
operation of great care and delicacy in its tattered condi- 
tion, — placed it under the blankets of his bed. He resumed 
his seat by the fire, but soon began drumming with his 
fingers on the arm of his chair. Eventually this assumed 
the time and accent of some air. Then he began to whistle 
softly and hesitatingly, as if trying to recall a forgotten tune. 
Finally this took shape in a rude resemblance, not unlike 
that which his flag bore to the national standard, to Yankee 
Doodle. Suddenly he stopped. 

There was an unmistakable rapping at the door. The 
blood which had at first rushed to his face now forsook it 
and settled slowly around his heart. He tried to rise, but 
could not. Then the door was flung open, and a figure 
with a scarlet-lined hood and fur mantle stood on the thres- 
hold. With a mighty effort he took one stride to the door. 
The next moment he saw the wide mouth and white teeth 
of the Princess, and was greeted by a kiss that felt like a 
baptism. 

To tear the hood and mantle from her figure in the 
sudden fury that seized him, and to fiercely demand the 
reason of this masquerade, was his only return to her greet- 
ing. “ Why are you here ? did you steal these garments ? 
he again demanded in her guttural language, as he shook 
her roughly by the arm. The Princess hung her head 
“ Did you ? ” he screamed, as he reached wildly for his 
rifle. 

I did.” 

His hold relaxed, and he staggered back against the 
wall. The Princess began to whimper. Between her sobs, 
she was trying to explain that the Major and his daughter 
were going away, and tnat they wanted to send her to the 


394 Princess Bob and her Friends, 

Reservation; but he cut her short. “Take off those 
things ! ” The Princess tremblingly obeyed. He rolled 
them up, placed them in the canoe she had just left, and 
then leaped into the frail craft. She would have followed, 
but with a great oath he threw her from him, and with one 
stroke of his paddle swept out into the fog; and was gone. 

Jessarny,” said the Major, a few days after as he sat at 
dinner with his daughter, “ I think I can tell you something 
, to match the mysterious disappearance and return of your 
wardrobe. Your crazy friend, the recluse, has enlisted this 
morning in the Fourth Artillery, He’s a splendid-looking 
animal, and there’s the right stuff for a soldier in him, if 
Pm not mistaken. He’s in earnest too, for he enlists in 
the regiment ordered back to Washington. Bless me, 
child, another goblet broken ! you’ll ruin the mess in glass- 
ware, at this rate.” 

“Have you heard anything more of the Princess, papa?” 

“Nothing, but perhaps it’s as well that she has gone. 
These cursed settlers are at their old complaints again 
about what they call ‘ Indian depredations,’ and I have just 
received orders from head-quarters to keep the settlement 
clear of all vagabond aborigines. I am afraid, my dear, that 
a strict construction of the lerm would include yom pro^egS.’* 

. The time for the departure of the Fourth Artillery had 
come. The night before was thick and foggy. At one 
o’clock a shot on the ramparts called out the guard and 
roused the sleeping garrison. The new sentry. Private 
Grey, had challenged a dusky figure creeping on the glacis, 
* and, receiving no answer, had fired. The guard sent out 
presently returned, bearing a lifeless figure in their arms. 
The new sentry’s zeal, joined with an ex-frontiersman’s aim, 
was fatal 

They laid the helpless, ragged form before the guard* 
house door, and then saw for the first time that it was the 


The Princess Bob and her Friends, 395 

Princess. Presently she opened her eyes. They fell upon 
the agonised face of her innocent slayer, but haply without 
intelligence or reproach. 

“ Georgy ! ” she whispered. 

“Bob!” 

“ All’s same now. Me get plenty well soon. Me make 
no more fuss. Me go to Reservation.” 

Then she stopped, a tremor ran through her limbs, and 
she lay still She had gone to the Reservation. Not that 
devised by the wisdom of man, but that one set apart from 
the foundation of the world, for the wisest as well as the 
meanest of His creatures. 


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